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| The Lake Dog |
Nobody knew where Buddy came from.
He was simply there, the way the lake was there, and the pines, and the long gold light that lay across the water in the evening. A lake dog. If you asked the regulars how long he'd been around, they'd scratch their heads and say, "Oh, Buddy? Buddy's always been here." And somehow that seemed to be true.
He knew everyone. He knew which cabins woke early and which slept late, which docks the fish liked best, which children could be trusted to throw a stick and which would only pretend. If you offered him a scrap from your plate, he would take it politely, with a small dignified nod, as if to say thank you — but he never begged. Not once. Buddy had his pride.
He weathered the seasons. Summer thunderstorms, the first frost, the deep hush of snow — Buddy met them all the way he met everything, without complaint, as though he had agreed to the terms of the world long ago and had no quarrel with any of them.
One summer I brought a new puppy to the lake, along with my older dog, who was very well behaved. The puppy was not. When he caught sight of Buddy, he lost his little mind entirely — bouncing and yipping and barking with the wild joy of someone who has never learned that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him.
Buddy did not bark back. He simply looked at me.
I have never in my life been so thoroughly told off without a single word. That look traveled straight out of his old eyes and into the middle of my chest, and it said, plain as anything:
What have you done? Why are you not parenting your dog?
I felt about two inches tall. I had disappointed Buddy — and somehow that mattered more than disappointing almost anyone.
Because Buddy was an old soul. You could see it in him. He had the patience of something that has watched a great many summers come and go.
For years, whenever I arrived at my mother's cabin, Buddy would appear to greet us. Never right away, and never for very long. He'd trot up out of the trees, look us over, accept his welcome — and then go on about his rounds. Because Buddy had rounds, you understand. A whole territory of friends to visit and quiet business to attend to.
We worried about him, out there on his own. But he never seemed to want saving. He kept to himself, turned up to say hello, and carried on. That was simply who he was: a free spirit, belonging to the lake and to everyone and to no one at all.
Then one of the locals — an older woman who lived down near the water — began to look after him.
Or perhaps he began to look after her. With Buddy it was always hard to say. Maybe they looked after each other. That happens, sometimes, between two old souls who recognize something familiar in one another.
And when the time came for her to leave the lake and move to a retirement community in the city, Buddy went with her.
It was sad to see him go. The next time I visited, the lake was still the lake — but there was an emptiness in it now. A Buddy-shaped space where a small gray dog used to come trotting out of the pines. We missed him. And we wondered how a lake dog, a free spirit, would ever manage the great change from open water and open sky to city rooms and city halls.
But I think Buddy knew exactly what he was doing.
Because he had always known where he was needed. And now he was needed there.
In the retirement community, they say, he became something of a legend. He did his rounds, just as he always had — down the long halls now instead of along the shoreline — greeting each resident, accepting the treats they were so delighted to give, never begging, always with that same small dignified nod. He gave them his quiet company. And in return he received something he had never quite had before: a warm place, a secure routine, and a whole new world of friends. His own retirement, earned honestly and spent with grace.
He had traded the freedom of the lake for a different kind of gift — being cherished. And he seemed to understand that it was a fair trade.
Buddy met his calling the way he met the seasons: with dignity, and with grace, and with that loyal, knowing heart that only dogs have ever quite managed to perfect.
And when at last his long life was done — when the old soul finally set off for wherever old souls go — I like to think he simply began one more round. A bigger territory this time. New friends to greet. New porches to sit on in the long gold evening light.
If I could reach up and pin the brightest star in all of Heaven onto one small, gray, wandering dog —
I would give it to Buddy.
And on clear nights at the lake, when the water is still and the whole sky is full, I look up and I find the brightest one, and I know exactly who it is.
Still doing his rounds.
Still watching over all of us.
Good dog, Buddy. Good dog..
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