He arrived on a plane from Arkansas in December of
1994. My brother got him a ticket and a
frequent flyer number on Northwest Airlines.
He weighed about 4 lbs, but most of that was bark and howl. He didn’t remember me when I picked him up at
the airport because when Jordan selected him, his eyes werent’ yet open.
His name was Buckwheat.
He was a Lab, a black lab. He
grew big, and he was smart. He understood
more English than most High School Graduates do, and was a hell of a lot more
polite. But, he would lie to you. Buck would always insist to anyone who would
listen that he hadn’t been fed in weeks.
He would sit there dripping wet and deny that he had been in the
pool. He would look at you with an
absolutely clear conscience and insist that he did not know what happened to
the pizza crust……or th whole thing of lasagna.
Buck was three years old when his brother arrived. We brought Catfish home from the hospital,
and Buck had the first sniff. At first,
he wasn’t too interested in the boy, but as the boy grew, Buck did his part in
teaching him to be a good kid. For a long time, Catfish used to tell people that Buckwheat was his brother. Buck was
a gentle to, and Ratfish is a gentle kid.
Buck was a rough-house dog, and Fish will rough house wit you. Buck was an understanding dog, and Monkeyboy
understands.
Then, 14 years went by, and Buck got old. One of
the cruelest realities of being a grownup is that you see dogs go from puppies,
to dogs, to old dogs. They
don’t know when they are puppies, and they don’t realize they are getting old,
and they have no concept of their own mortality. They just
live for today, and a smile from you. Through the entire journey, they are good,
solid friends. If we have one friend who
was as solid as Buckwheat, we are indeed blessed. We nurture them as puppies, enjoy them as
dogs, and comfort them in the twilight.
I have often said that if you treat you kids as well as you treat your
dog, both will turn out ok.
On September 18, 2007 while playing soccer, I blew out my ACL, tore my Miniscus, and broke my tibia. The next morning, Buck was sick. He couldn't stand. He was disoriented, and couldn't walk. I carried him to the Van, and took him to the vet. Sick old dogs are tough on a man's heart. You hate to say good by, but you know you owe it to the dog to be strong.
Here’s to memories of old dogs.
