THE BOX

There is an oak box that rests on our fireplace. It is just an ordinary box that adds no aesthetic value to our living room. In fact, it is an ugly box. Inside its wooden walls are the ashes of what was once a champion of a dog: a majestic animal named Buddy.

In April of 2012, we went shopping for a German shepherd pup. My husband said to look for the one with the most spunk. He pointed to a floppy-eared furball that ran headfirst into a wall. “That’s the one,” he said. I shot him a side-eye. We brought the little guy home. He crashed into everything and blazed through the house all day long. He exhausted us. My fourteen-year-old son named him Ruckus. After two weeks, we decided that Ruckus needed a buddy to keep him busy.

We decided on another German shepherd but from a different breeder. Buddy was the opposite of Ruckus. He was a week younger but three times the size of Ruckus, with a strong, block-shaped snout and hair so long and thick it looked like a lion’s mane. He was calm and often laid down like an old man about to tap a nap. Ruckus jumped over Buddy, stomped on him as he was napping, and nipped his ears. Buddy never once growled or fought back. When I opened the door for the dogs to come in, Ruckus knocked Buddy out the way every single time.

Ruckus was a professional hole digger, a plotter of escapes, destroyer of rugs, stomper of plants, and a pee-on-everything-in-my-backyard artist. Buddy never dug one hole nor made any attempt to leave, unless Ruckus manipulated a gate open; then he’d lunge through, trying desperately to keep up with the instigator.

The only way to catch them was to shout, “Let’s go for a ride in the people car!” I’d open the rear gate of my SUV and wait. They would both race to hop in. I never punished them for their escapes but would take them around the block as a reward for coming home.

Ruckus had an energy that could power an entire town if we could harness it. He would run in circles for hours, sniffing out bugs, terrorizing the grasshoppers and crickets. Buddy and I watched from the cool sanctuary of the shade. We knew Ruckus was special.

Buddy gently placed every ball I threw to him back in my hand. Ruckus never gave one back, but instead showboated it around like a trophy, his tail whipping Buddy in the face. We could not leave food unguarded with Ruckus in the room. We would never see that food again. Buddy never once took a drop of food without it being offered to him.

Each dog taught me something different. Ruckus taught me to blaze through the world, to own it. Buddy taught me to sit back and enjoy it.

As they aged, Ruckus slowed down only slightly. Buddy seemed to have more and more trouble standing, until one day, he couldn’t stand at all. His back leg was swollen, and a large knot had formed on his backside. I thought my gentle dog had broken his hip trying to balance himself on a hammock. The vet took X-rays and came back with grim news. “It is the “C” word,” he told me. I took Buddy to an animal hospital an hour away to see if there was anything we could do. The cancer had already spread to his lungs. He did not have long left.

I cried and cried and cried. But I tried not to cry in front of Buddy. He was sensitive. I did not want him to see me sad in his last days. After all, he didn’t know they were his last. Every day was a new beginning to him. There was no end to his happiness.

One morning, I looked out the back door as Buddy tried to sit. He fell backward and lay in the hot sun. We pulled him inside. It was time to say goodbye. I called the vet and made an appointment.

He lay, unmoving on the hardwood floor for over six hours. We tried to get him to walk around. He didn’t move an inch. I offered him a piece of chocolate as one last treat, something he had always wanted. He refused it.

When it was time for his last ride to the vet, I fetched his leash and shouted that we were going for a ride in the people car. His paws dug into the hardwood floor as he struggled to stand, grinning the entire time. I snipped a lock of fur from his mane. I wanted to clip more but did not want him to leave the world with a bad haircut. My husband and son hoisted him into the back of the SUV. I grabbed his beautiful mane in my hands and kissed his forehead.

I did not go to see Buddy put down. I didn’t want the vet to see me fall onto the floor in grief. I knew I would. I stayed home with Ruckus. For the first time, Ruckus stopped. I sat on the swing in my backyard and stared into the sky, hoping to see the shape of a dog in the clouds or some type of sign that Buddy was okay. Instead, Ruckus walked over to me and put his head in my lap for the first time.

Maybe that was my sign. Or maybe Ruckus knew.

Buddy had been exactly what we wanted him to be.

Tracie Breaux is an author of Refined and The 5-Step Millionaire, as well as contributor and money expert for The Cash Queen.