Buck

He wasn’t the biggest dog at the shelter, and he definitely wasn’t the prettiest.  His head was big and square; his fur was missing in patches, the skin pink and scabbed.  He was rough – I joked that he looked how I felt – but there he was anyway, clowning around, jumping on the other dogs, sticking his paws out of the cage to grab my jeans.

I always wanted a dog; but I was a poor kid and when I got to be an adult, I had an animal hating wife.  I let go of the idea without knowing it, like how one day day you wake up and all of a sudden you can’t be an astronaut or professional ball player anymore.  It all came rushing back as I watched him roll around, getting snapped at by his cage mate.  A thrill spread over me; there was no reason I couldn’t have him.  I had my own place, my wife had left me and the only person still talking to me was my Aunt Kelly.

Buck came home that day, strutting into the place like he knew what the hell.  At first I had no idea what to do with him.  I took him out in the woods one night for a long walk and he was so elated that I made it a regular thing.  I cut back on the drinking so I could take him in the morning before work, too.

It all came together around him, and he never said a word.  I spent a year chasing Ashley, begging her to come back, asking her what I did wrong.  I worked overtime to pay for her counseling and her new transmission and her boob job.  Everyone had a theory, they all told me what to do and what to say.  They were right – about everything – but I told them to shove it.

Lucky for me, Buck made sure that estranged friends got a king’s welcome.  Everyone loved him – except Ashley, who took his nose to the crotch as an insult and told me to get rid of him if I ever wanted her “to even consider” coming home.  I told her not to worry about it.

We had a routine, me and Buck.  Living together, rebuilding day by day.  About a year ago, we were on a walk when a kid tried to rough me up.

Give me your money, he says.
Fuck off, I told him.

He shoved me and we scuffled, he was just a kid really, and I threw him to the ground.  He got scared, I think – he pulled a gun.  He shot me straight through the leg.  I fell fast and he got up, ran over to me, screaming.  Buck got between us, fur bristled, growling and spitting and lunging like I’d never seen.  Four gunshots rang out and Buck fell silent.

The kid ran off and we were alone again, the night still and cold.  Buck limped over and laid his head on my hand, his fur soaked in warm blood.  I wanted to call for help, I wanted to scream but I couldn’t do anything.  I pulled him in and buried my eyes in his soft coat, telling him over and over that it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…I kept rocking him after he stopped breathing.

My best friend died protecting me.  He never asked for much, and he probably thought he'd strut over, check on me and take a nap.  Or maybe he knew that he was going to die, I don't know.

In the mornings, I saw his furry snout on my pillow, all lit up and excited.  He curled up next to the bed every night, keeping an eye on me in case I decided to go off somewhere and I might leave him behind.  He didn’t want to miss anything; he followed me around the house, watching me.  To Buck, I was the world and everything good in it.  I don't think he had any regrets, living the way he did, a big heart and short memory.  Dogs don’t worry much; they’re goodness and honor all the way through.

It snowed today.  Buck loved snow – rolling on it, digging in it, eating it.  He used to bring me balls of ice and look up at me expectantly, like he was asking if I’d throw it for him.  He could never find the snowballs I threw but he was thrilled anyway.  If he were here, I’d let him on the couch tonight, even if his fur was all wet and musty, and we’d watch TV before going to sleep.  He would’ve loved that, the first snow of the year and together on the couch, what a day.