Creative Nonfiction - Buddy

Every night it’s the same trauma. “Buddy, time for bed.” Silence, as if he thinks I don’t know where he’s hiding. “Buddy, come out, good boy!” Of course, Buddy, my angelic-looking long-haired apricot maltese poodle cross, does not come out.

Grrrrrr. Grrrrrrrrr! It’s a long drawn-out guttural growl at that, rather fierce. By some magical process, Buddy has turned into a miniature wolverine hiding under the desk. I turn off the computer and look down at him; baleful eyes glare back. He growls again, even louder. I know that growl. It means “don’t mess with me”. I get down on my knees and crawl under the desk after him. He wiggles backwards under the drawer, showing his teeth, albeit two bottom ones missing. Now he’s against the wall, just out of reach. He’s won the first round.

“Buddy, why do we have to fight every night about this. Time for bed!” Buster, his brother, has already risen, is hovering anxiously at the door. Buster, sweet, not-as-intelligent Buster, who, without question, would follow me into a blizzard or over a cliff, does what he’s told. Sensing a stand-off here, he whines, trots over, and licks my ankle. Buddy looks over at him and growls again. “Buddy!” Buddy growls louder.

“Buddy, you sound like a sick cow.” An insult. He narrows his eyes. I’m hesitant about reaching in and picking him up, afraid of getting bitten. I’ve got four scars, one on my cheek and three on my right arm, courtesy of Buddy’s tantrums at night. I ponder my next move.

Yesterday evening, I tricked him by running upstairs and jingling the leash, and he fell for it. As soon as I got him up the stairs I scooped him and carried him downstairs and put him to bed. Woof! Woof! Grrrr! No walk? He was so indignant.

In the morning, when I recounted this story, my husband was indignant also, saying I shouldn’t play tricks on the poor dog. I felt I should be going down to the basement and apologizing on bended knee. Of course, when the leash comes out of the cupboard for the morning walk, it’s as if we’ve never quarreled and Buddy is wriggling on his back, doing his little break-dance thing, squirming, trying to lick my fingers while I fasten the collar under his furry chin.

It’s hard to hold a grudge against Buddy when he’s in his pre-walk raptures. Normally silent, he makes all sorts of little chirps and squeaks of joy. He races to his water dish and laps up the whole plate as if we’re going into the Sahara. He runs downstairs to his room, returns with a dog biscuit, trots into the living room if the door is open, stands over the Persian carpet in front of the fireplace, and gobbles it, making crumbs. He always does this three times.

“Buddy, not on the Persian carpet, for heaven’s sake!”

“He’s happy, let him eat his biscuit where he wants,” my husband says, putting his jacket on and reaching for his briefcase.

“But the crumbs!”

“He’s a dog!” says my husband.

“We’ve got to keep the door to the living room shut.”

“I didn’t open it,” says my husband, smirking and picking up Buddy for a cuddle. “Be good, Buddy, have a great day! You’re such a lucky dog! I wish I could stay home!” He kisses him on the head, puts him down, pats Buster and goes off to work.

Buddy cocks his head to one side, keeping his beady little eyes trained on me. “You’re supposed to take me for a walk, what’s keeping you?”

He follows me around as I tidy up the kitchen before we head out. He picks up the handle of the leash and flips it into the air as if to say “See! Pay attention!” He goes over to Buster and pulls on his leash, leading him around the room in a circle until Buster loses patience, sits down and refuses to budge.

Buddy worries the leash. He wants to play. He goes over to the occasional rug in the den and starts rolling it up by slowly inching backwards over it while scrabbling at the edge of it with his paws. Why he does this no one knows. Finally in desperation I grab my jacket and hat and open the door and he explodes down the driveway before I can catch him. “Wait for us, Buddy!” I say, as Buster and I follow at a more sedate pace.

Yes, things are wonderful when Buddy is going for walks or lounging in the den on weekends. It is really only the evenings that are problematic. Before, when I worked nights, I’d come home and wait for him to come racing down the stairs from my husband’s upstairs office. I’d scoop him up at the front door as he wagged his tail and danced about me in the hallway, and I’d put him to bed before he knew what was happening. It’s only in the last year when I’ve been writing late at night and the dogs have been “sent to keep me company” under my desk, that difficulties have arisen.

I can’t rely on my husband to put Buddy to bed; he can’t bear to do it. On the few nights I’ve gone to bed early, I’ve awakened in the middle of the night to find his side of the bed empty. I’ve gone downstairs, shivering, to find him lying on the couch with a towel from the dryer draped over him in lieu of a blanket, Buddy in his arms or occupying the far end of the couch. Buster lies on the floor, his tail thumping at my approach. Buddy, of course, growls.

“Honey, what are you doing on the couch? Why don’t you come to bed?”

“Buddy doesn’t want to go to bed yet,” my kind-hearted husband says sleepily, “he was trembling when I tried to take him down.”

I know Buddy. I know it’s all a big act. Buddy, runt of the litter, brought home as a consolation prize, a companion for his brother Buster, Buddy is actually the smartest little dog I know. People who say dogs just have one expression should meet Buddy. He should be in movies. He can summon tears to his little brown eyes when he doesn’t get what he wants. He can cock his ears and turn his head just so in front of a dinner guest with a steak. Or an owner trying to eat bacon on Sunday mornings in front of the T.V.

“Don’t give all your bacon to the dog, he’ll be sick.”

“Buddy you won’t be sick, will you? Of course not. Buddy likes bacon.”

“Well, Buddy can cook it then.”

“Now, now, don’t be mean, how can you be so mean to sweet little Buddy?”

I give up and cook more bacon. Maybe he’ll have an M.I. and stop biting me.

And so it goes. At three p.m., tea and cookies for the visitors. Buddy trots in, sits down beside the plate of biscuits, looks over the visitors craftily. I can see what’s coming and try to intervene. “Buddy, dogs don’t get cookies.”

“I am not a dog.” his look says.

“Buddy, go look out the window, guard the house, make yourself useful, good dog.”

He takes a run at the reclining leather swivel chair near the window, gathers himself, leaps, lands, squirms to get comfortable. He rests his chin on the arm rest and looks out the window and then back at my guests, who of course are saying “What a clever dog. You must give him a cookie for that!” Buddy’s look says it all: “Hah, foiled again!” I go to the kitchen and boil more water for the tea, trying to compose myself. Round two: Buddy.

Other times, when I am trying to be nice, he is paranoid. He’ll turn his head away from tidbits as if he thinks I’m trying to poison him. “Buddy, you were eating the very same Cheerios last night!” When a dish of cut up chicken or steak is placed on the floor in front of him, he walks away as if to say “That? I’m not eating that!” and yet it is the same chicken or steak he’s been eyeing on my husband’s plate moments before.

By now, you’re probably thinking: what a spoiled dog, what a strange household! Why not just plain dog food? I put it out for him (Buster eats it) but of course how does one compete with the master who, seeing the dog standing at the fridge, gets up and opens the door of the fridge: “You want some cheese? Oh, clever dog, you know where the cheese is! How many slices would you like? Here you go, here’s your cheese.”

Tonight, I’ve been trying to finish a deadline. It is 1 a.m. and Buddy has actually fallen asleep under the desk. But I know better than to try to pick up a sleeping dog. And so I call him out. Which doesn’t work. He’s awake, he’s grumpy, he’s spoiling for a fight. I wish they made doggy tongs or something. I don’t want to get bitten.

Of course, he’s predictable. He always bites to the right, I’ve warned the people at the kennel, not wanting to come back from holidays and face a lawsuit. “He’s such a little lamb, I can’t imagine him biting anyone,” the girl at the desk will say, as if she thinks I must be torturing him somehow to merit this behaviour.

“Just wait till you put him to bed,” I say darkly, shaking my head. I show the attendants how to pick him up, holding his neck so he can’t bite. The growl gives them pause, at least. Buddy always growls when he’s picked up and he keeps growling until he is deposited somewhere he likes. A chair. A garden swing. Or a bed.

Buddy believes he should sleep on a pillow in the centre of the master bed, with my husband. I believe this misconception arose some years ago, when my husband used to take Saturday afternoon naps while I was out grocery-shopping. Now, it is as if Buddy is constantly on a mission to get into that bedroom, day and night.

Buddy is short, and it is hard for him to jump onto the bed and he’s nervous about taking a flying leap, but after a few tries he usually makes it. If he can’t get on the bed and hears someone coming, he’ll hide underneath it and it is nearly impossible to get him out. I suppose one could turn on the vacuum cleaner and poke the wand under the bed but I do have my limits.

He’s not shy about other beds either. We’ve found him in bed with guests who have stayed over in the guest room. We’ve found them downstairs cooking him omelets at 6 a.m. Omelets! Good thing we were out of bacon.

Buddy, you really are a dog. A cute one, but a dog. That’s D-O-G. You have your own room with Buster in the basement. You have a big window to look out at the yard. You have custom stairs to run up and down to your own ledge overlooking the yard. You have toys to play with and may I remind you that you would have had a nice basket to sleep in had you not chewed the last two baskets to bits. You have a nice imitation lambskin pad to sleep on instead. You have an old pillow to tussle with; you have an old quilt. You have everything except the king size bed, which you were always in danger of falling off any way. You are not sleeping on the bed any more because you chewed the blankets. We gave you a second chance. And a third. And then, sorrowfully, guiltily, we made you go back to the basement. Where you’re going tonight. Right now.

“Come on Buddy, let’s go see if there is any bacon upstairs.” Can he tell when I’m being sarcastic? “Well, I’ll just have to eat all the bacon myself, I guess.” I turn out the lights and pretend to go upstairs without him. I hide on the landing in the dark. He ventures out and I pick him up quickly holding his neck with one hand so he can’t bite me. He knows I’ve got him now, he relaxes, doesn’t squirm, it’s passive resistance, a show of bravado or maybe he’s turned back into the puppy I used to waltz around the living room with, the one who fell asleep on my shoulder, his little wobbly head nestled under my chin.

I cuddle Buddy in my arms and talk to him; he’s still the right size, about 7 lbs, and he instinctively turns over and nestles his head in the crook of my arm. I rock him. I bury my nose in his fur and smell his sweet doggy smell. “It’s okay, Buddy, in the morning we’ll go for a nice big walk, the three of us. You have a good sleep.” The growls fade as I walk around my basement office, cuddling him. I put him and Buster to bed, turn out the light and go upstairs. One last growl through the door. Then silence. And so the household sleeps.