BUD

The clock beside the bed told me it was shortly after midnight. I lay still, wondering what had disturbed my sleep. The dogs weren’t barking, so it couldn’t be an intruder. My fan was still humming softly, swinging back and forth, so it wasn’t the electricity clicking off that pulled me from the arms of Morpheus. But there was something…and then I heard it, a deep sigh ending in a little whine; and knew what was happening. I lifted my head and looked down beside the bed. Bud was crouched right there, motionless except for the tremors that ran over his skin with each deep breath. His eyes were glazed with pain as he looked up at me. He leaned against my hand when I reached out to fondle his head.

‘Hurting, old fella?’ His tail wagged weakly when he heard my voice. I pushed back the blankets, and he struggled to stand upright, then hobbled slowly behind me into the kitchen. Grump-puppy joined us when he heard the fridge door open and the rattle of the pill bottle. He knew the routine. It was a sure sign that cheese would be the treat – his share clean, while Bud’s pieces camouflaged the pain medication. These occasions are more frequent lately.

Bud’s health is deteriorating; both the spread of cancer, and the rheumatism so evident whenever it rains, are taking their toll. One would never know it while watching him play outside. He’s still racing around, albeit slower, and continues to push or pull his rocks up and down the hill. His breathing is quite ragged, so he needs to stop still now and then. His pride is such that, if I dare to glance his way when he’s taking a break, he’ll go right back at it again. A born show-off. A typical male, he pushes himself to the limit, then pays for it at the end of the day. When I’m away at work he has no choice but to take it easy, being closeted in the house during the day, and only a short walk or play in the evening. On the weekend, however, it would be pure torture to keep him shut up inside when he can see all the other dogs running around on his territory. Sunday nights, especially if it rains, are not usually good.

Bud has never been a whiner. If he was a human, he’d be dubbed “the strong, silent type”. He has come through dog fights, been hit more than once by cars (in my driveway, yet!), rolled down a rocky hill, and had his share of ‘owies’. We knew he had to be hurting after these episodes, but it never stopped his continual movement, and he never made a sound. More than once I’d shake my head and say “no sense, no feeling.”

It’s different now. When he is suffering, if I’m awake, he’ll come and lean against me, and stay there quietly. I know it’s time for the pain killers. At night, instead of lying by the foot of my bed, he’ll move to the head, then stays there, patiently waiting for me to get up. He only whines when he can’t handle it any longer and, even then, it doesn’t seem to be voluntary, and it’s not loud. It doesn’t have to be; an invisible finger of love pokes me, telling me my friend needs help.

I know it won’t be long now.

Luv from the Bush in Quebec