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Many of those who know me have met my parents Pomeranian (of dubious purebloodedness), Buddy. Buddy was a homeless dog that my mother saw in the headlights of her car one night, having been out to ferry my sister around. She came home with this little black, coughing, hacking, bedraggled thing, and my father said, "We are not keeping that pseudo-dog." (Or words to that effect, because, truly, Buddy has that effect on many people. He's not a real dog. He's a a reanimated tea cozy. A dustmop lich. With goblin teeth.)

We're about 8-10 years down the line now, and guess what? Buddy still lives with my parents. He has a basket and special toys, and my mother has even paid for surgery on him. The first was to get him fixed, so he would stop going on dog-walkabouts every time the gate opened. The second was for teeth-cleaning, because his former life as a transient left him with some truly heinous breath. It wouldn't matter if he hadn't been neutered; breath that bad would be a deal-breaker for anyone. And the third time was to get his hip fixed after he hit a car. Yes, you read that correctly: The car saw him run out and stopped. Buddy didn't.

Periodically, Buddy still gets out. Not as much as he used to; some of his greatest adventures were with Chaucer, our English Springer. The two of them formed a pack and roamed the wilds of 38117, frequently getting as far as Poplar Avenue(my aunt caught them there once, waiting for the light to change. No, I'm not kidding. I suspect they were following the scent of the local squirrels, because at that time my mother was trying catch and release at the local park. She hadn't begun her cycle of destruction yet, but that's another story).

I got a call from my mother yesterday. She'd had the yard-maintenance guys over for the leaves (no longer having children at home for free labor) and when they opened the gate to get in the back, Buddy took off. (Personally, I blame the weather; it seems like it would have envigorated one.) But, my parents were both at work, so no one knew that Buddy was off on a Canine Adventureā„¢. Very often he comes back on his own, and there is nothing to tell you that he's been gone, or gone where, except that he's sitting on the front steps with his anxious wiggle and snaggle-toothed grin.

Well, Buddy didn't go to Poplar. He apparently took himself for a walk, choosing the path that goes behind White Station High School and cuts through the school's parking lot. There he was discovered by one of the Special Ed teachers, who scooped him up and took him to school with her. (I am constantly amazed at this dog's luck.) Buddy spent the day at WSHS and even attended that afternoon's faculty meeting. God knows what he had to eat, which I only point out because Buddy is an indeterminable number of years old, but in the uppder double digis for certain. This dog gets arthritis and acid reflux medicine, for pete's sake.

At any rate, Buddy ended his freedom quest by being sent to sleep in the garage last night, just in case his tastes for junk food had been indulged. Dog sick is so much nicer in one's garage than one's kitchen, don't'cha know? 'Til next time; same Buddy time; same Buddy place!

*Somewhere in this journal is Buddy's First Adventureā„¢, but it predates tagging, so I'll have to look for it later.


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September 2017

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