Buddy is buried under the crape myrtle tree in the back yard.
Early in the spring he began to limp. He often slipped when fetching his toy. He moaned when he laid down. He needs to see a doctor, my husband said.
The news wasn't good. The doctor told us to keep him comfortable. In time the tumors grew, making Buddy's hipbones brittle and his groans soon became whimpers. I winced with his pain. My husband said we had to do what was best for Buddy. It's time, he said. We drove into town, the three of us. Buddy's nose pressed against the window. My husband and I silent.
At the clinic, I couldn't stay quiet. Twelve years, I said, twelve years he's been a part of our family. Twelve years he's been by our side, through the good times and the bad. He's the only child we ever had. How can we do this? My husband shook his head. The doctor readied the needle. My heart fluttered in my throat like a frightened bird.
The injection was quick. Buddy lay still on the table. His eyes never left mine. I tried to stay strong. I caressed that soft spot behind his ear. I whispered my heart to him and kissed the place where his whiskers bristled from his nose. His breathing slowed from a quick pant to quieting heaves to the inevitable nothing. I draped myself over his still body. My tears ran down his neck, mingling with his wiry coat.
Buddy is buried under the crape myrtle tree in the back yard. In the fall, the spent pink-crimson blooms will cover his grave.
The morning Buddy was three days in the ground, a dark blur out the garden window caught my eye. The milk I was pouring splashed out of the bowl. My husband cursed, shaking his wet sleeve. I glanced again out the window, saw nothing, and dismissed the blur for a bird. Was it a raven? No, bigger than a raven. I cleaned up the mess, apologizing, and retrieved a clean shirt. I found myself looking over the garden throughout the day, wondering.
That night I heard a loud thump. Did you hear it? I asked my husband. The house settling, he said. I lay in the dark, listening, my thoughts on the blur I'd seen in the yard that morning. There's the sound again, I whispered. My husband mumbled and turned away, pulling the covers around his ears. I crept through the dark house to the back door; but by the time I got there, Buddy was gone. I didn't sleep again that night.
A couple of days later, I opened the door to get the paper and found an old steak bone. A gift left on the doorstep. What is it, my husband asked. I showed him. He saw the look in my eyes and shook his head. Just a coincidence, he said. He took the bone from my hands and threw it into the garbage bin under the sink.
Evening shrouded the house in quiet. The fire crackled in the corner stove and the air was in turns chilled and warmed. Buddy would have been there beside me on the sofa, curled into a ball, his nose tucked under the curve of his back leg, his eyes gazing up at me. I looked at my husband sitting in his chair, quiet, reading a book. He did not look longingly at the spot where Buddy napped during the day, the carpet fibers gone frizzy from his repeated pawing for comfort. He did not listen for the scratch at the back door. He was not heartsick from grief. I miss him, I said, caressing the sofa cushion to my left. You loved that dog too much, my husband said. You loved him more than me. He put his book down and walked from the room. Yes, I thought. More than you ever did.
One morning while my husband was away at work, I saw the blur of black and white racing again through the back yard. I opened the door and whispered, come in. A rush of wind moved the hem of my skirt. An unexpected joy filled me. Come in, I whispered again, closing the door. You are welcome here. The rest of the day was sweet. The house was calm. My heart was at peace.
That night, there came a rustling of the bedspread at my feet. I felt Buddy's hot breath against my ear. My pounding heart whooshed in my ears and the moon cast blue shadows across the room. I slid from the bed and slipped into my bathrobe. Together we exited the house. Buddy was eager to show me his world. He raced around the yard and the night air whipped through my hair. Buddy dug around the ginger bushes and the dirt caked beneath my fingernails. He howled at the moon and together our voices mingled into a symphony of hope and of grief.
I resolved to keep the sightings to myself for fear of my husband's ridicule. The rolling of his eyes and the impatient sighs. The you-know-better-than-this looks. But it became difficult to hide the fact that I no longer fetched the morning paper. How was I to answer when he accused me of digging holes in the yard? Did he think I was poisoning the birds?
Stop, he said one evening as I collected the rib bones from his plate. Stop. Buddy is gone, he said. Let him go.
Don't you see? I asked him. The bones? The birds? The holes? My arms beat the air as I tried to make him understand. Buddy is here, I said. I opened the door, I said. I let him in. He sits by me on the couch. He sleeps at the end of the bed. He's back.
Stop. My husband's fist hammered the table, making me jump. Stop this. Stop acting crazy. Then he spoke more quietly. You need to see a doctor, he said. It's time. My arms went limp. I turned my eyes to the garden window where I saw a pink tongue beneath a shining black nose. I pointed. He's right there. My husband just looked away. It was then I knew I had no choice.
My husband took a sip from the cold glass at dinner. Have you let the milk go bad? he asked. I continued to eat my meal, unable to move my eyes from my plate, imagining his esophagus squeezing the cold liquid down, down.
The earth turned three times and settled into darkness.
Now, the fire crackles quietly in the corner. The house is quiet, but I am not alone. I look to the door with its window overlooking the garden. The spectre of my husband has a sad face, a forgive-me-I-didn't-know face. I meet his eyes and I whisper no, I will not let you in. You refused to believe. Buddy's weight nestles in close beside me on the sofa, and I smile.
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