Goodbye, my Buddy.

Last week I had to say a final goodbye to my Buddy, the little dog who got me through five years of confusion, of hell, of changes. He was a comfort when I lost my job, then my father. He was familiarity when I moved from my lifelong home, and he was warmth when my Richard died. Yes, my children are my strength, but they have their own lives, which is as it should be. Buddy was completely mine, a constant presence. No matter what, he was waiting for me at the door, wriggling with joy when I came home; he made me get out and walk, to face the world when I wanted to curl up and die. He loved me unconditionally, the way children love you before they grow into the larger world for which you prepared them. Yes, he was old, his heart and lungs were giving out, and just breathing took so much effort. Yet every hard-earned breath was a joy for him, even in his last hours, as he stretched into the breeze. He had a look of acceptance, of contentment.

Buddy's life was a lesson for us all. His first eight years, before we got him, were difficult, his life less than ideal. Yet he was still willing and able to trust and love. I know this all sounds maudlin, but I can't be distant. He was my Buddy, and I miss him.