It seems like I am unraveling the dead here with my posts, but I am going through my photos trying to sort them into categories, and there are some fond memories coming up. I am enjoying sharing these stories, and many a tear and giggle escapes me while I am putting ‘pen to paper’. For if we don’t remember them, they are just like grains of sand slipping through our hands, lost forever.
Here is Buddy’s story.
Buddy, dubbed the “dirty uncle” by the family, due to the fact that he loved humping everything, even though he lost his balls early in our relationship.
It was early morning in September 2005. Christopher and I were traveling to work every day via the Heidelberg road, which cancelled out the traffic we would encounter at Gilooly’s and the Redding Interchange if we went the R59 route. Living in Three Rivers and working in Boksburg, we were always looking for ways to cut down on the travel time. At that stage, the Heidelberg route was the choice, but we had to leave quite early to make it to work by 8 am.
That morning, life was throwing everything at us. I can’t recall exactly what caused the mayhem, but we left a little later than usual, and this probably saved Buddy’s life. We had just left Three Rivers; the Corolla was gathering speed when I saw, in the distance, a calf trying to cross the road. The calf hesitantly put its front feet in the road, and the next minute, a car hit him. He was spun around and fell with his back feet in the road. A taxi, traveling in front of us, hit him again. By now, there was hell in our car. Witnessing all of this and not being able to stop it, I had hit my mad cow limit, as Christopher calls it. I remember us hitting the brakes, and even before the car had come to a halt, I was out of it. I hit the ground running in my high heels and reached the poor calf. I remember falling on my knees, looking at the calf and registering ‘it’s not a calf, it’s a dog’ in my head. The calf dog lifted his head and gave me a pitiful look. Until today, I don’t know where I got the strength from, but I lifted that dog up myself and tottered to the car. All of this happened so quickly Christopher was darting towards me when I was screaming, “OPEN the door!” The poor man darted back, opened the back door, and I heaved Buddy into the back seat. Without a word, Christopher turned the car around, and we made our way to the vet. At that stage, my vet was a mild-mannered Afrikaans elderly gentleman (emphasis on gentleman here) who wore safari suits to work. All the way there, I thought we were going to lose the calf dog. He was spluttering and foaming at the mouth, blood everywhere, and front feet torn and shredded. This made me cry even harder, snot everywhere, as on that day I didn’t have a tissue anywhere. I remember wearing a pencil skirt and a floral shirt, but it looked like I had slaughtered a cow as there was just blood everywhere.
Truth be spoken, I had no hope for the dog. This made me cry even harder. As with everything else in my life, there is no holding back on emotions. It’s just ugly when I lose it like that, and I can remember seeing my husband’s blue eyes looking like saucers throughout the entire time. We arrived at the vet as they were opening up. I ran inside and got a trolley. The entire staff complement, from the receptionist to the assistants, came running out with all the noise I was creating. They took one look at the dog and immediately called my safari suit vet. He arrived, hair combed over his bald spot, glasses perched on his nose, all composed and crisp, professional as only he could be. I remember standing in front of him, snot and tears with no tissue in sight, gesturing wildly and incoherent sentences coming out. He quickly got the dog on the trolley and wheeled him into surgery, telling me to go to work as there was nothing more that I could do.
I waited the entire day for an update. Late afternoon, it came through: the calf dog was still alive. He had made it through surgery, but he was still critical. As I was lying in bed that evening, the day was on replay in my head. I kept seeing the car hit the dog, and then the taxi driving over him. It was just horrible. The only thing that made me smile was the poor vet’s disheveled look when we drove off. His combover hair had come undone and was hanging limply, exposing his bald head. I remember his hand shaking as he handed me some kitchen roll to dry my tears and wipe my nose. That’s what happens when you come face to face with unleashing the Wildeness. It’s ugly.
The next morning, I called as soon as they opened their doors. It seemed the calf dog had made it through the night. He was still alive, barely so, but where there is life, there is hope, and we had no shortage of that. I stayed home, and the next few days were touch and go. The vet said that he was slowly showing improvement, but that he didn’t have the will to survive. That afternoon, four days after the accident, I collected Briony & Keagen from school and told them we were going to see the calf dog. I remember us walking into the reception and being ushered to the courtyard. The vet had thought it would be better for the dog to have a little fresh air. They had to carry him there as he couldn’t stand or walk. We walked into the courtyard, and I was struck by how big the dog was. He was a cross between a Saint Bernard and a Boerboel, and he was massive. He had that typical droopy red eyelid look that you get in Saint Bernards, and he was just lying there. His feet were bandaged, and he had stitches on his neck and down his side. We walked in, and immediately the kids went to him. They dropped down on their knees in front of him, and it was love at first sight. Buddy (immediately named by the kids) got a little light in his eye, and I can honestly say it became the turning point in his recovery. It wasn’t until the next day when the vet phoned me and asked if I was going to bring the kids again that afternoon because their visit had a profound impact on the dog. A week later, with the kids visiting every day, he improved so much that he could come home.
Home. What home? He didn’t have a home. Talk about throwing the baby and the kitchen sink at me at the same time. We were going overseas in December and wouldn’t be home for a month. The kennels that we pre-booked for our dogs had no space left. Buddy couldn’t walk; he was going to have to be assisted for another four weeks at least. We had our own three big dogs at home, DJ, Delilah, and Pepper, as well as the feisty little JRT, named TC. These dogs had not been introduced to Buddy, and now we were bringing a big dog (although his age was estimated at about 8 months) home. There was no telling what would happen but, like with everything else in life, we just winged it. Buddy arrived; we carried him in on a blanket, put him down in our room, and left the dogs to sniff him. Shame, he was so scared he wet himself. Here, I have to give my dogs credit. They knew Buddy was broken, and without any fuss, he was accepted into the family. That’s how Buddy came to stay.
The next four weeks went by with great effort on our behalf. Buddy was taken outside on a blanket, Christopher holding one side, I was holding the other. Good Lord, the dog was heavy. I often wonder about the day I picked him up myself and put him in the car. It is amazing what you can do when adrenaline is coursing through your veins. Long story short, we would take him outside, roll him off the blanket, he would wee and poop right there, we would roll him back on the blanket and take him back inside. What a story.
Dad never questioned the vet bill, the process of bringing him home, and the work that went with it. When I recall these instances and sacrifices he has made for animals, I know I married a saint. Saint Christopher when he isn’t Captain Slow. That’s all I have to say about that.
We were working against the clock as our holiday was looming, and Buddy, now much better, still had to be neutered, and there was still the little matter of board and lodging in December… My constant calling and begging the kennels paid off when they told me I could bring him too. The holiday was set. Buddy was looking good by the end of November, and I had booked him for castration when I returned home one day to find a very sick dog lying next to the pool. Oh Lordie, back in the car and storm the vet just to find out he had severe tick-bite fever. Once again, a touch-and-go situation, snot and tears everywhere, and Buddy back in the hospital. He lay on death’s door for a few days, and finally, my vet (with the bald patch on his head now starting to show again) told me he had one ace up his sleeve. He warned me that he was going to inject Buddy with blue stuff that would turn my dog blue and that I shouldn’t fret, it would eventually clear up. At that stage, I would have allowed him to be painted blue as we were out of options, so I gave the go-ahead. Did Buddy go BLUE or what?! Without a doubt, the bluest dog I had ever seen, but whatever that was, it saved his life. He came home, and all was well as it ended well. The blue stuff lingered for a while, and the best reaction came from friends when they visited. Their faces were a study and gave us cause for giggles on many occasions as the offending balls (that hadn’t been removed by then) were the shining blue light.
Buddy was huge, but he was the most placid dog. He was gentle and kind, and he just wanted to please. He loved children, and I think the visits from the kids in those first few weeks gave him a reason to live. He wasn’t the smartest dog and definitely never vied for the position as the top dog or chief, but he was a great Indian. He never upset the other dogs, except when he tried to hump them. Why he had such an obsession with humping, I would never know, but as soon as things got a little loud, happy, or exciting, he had to find a humping station. So we called him the “dirty uncle” of the family.
Years later, Buddy had not incurred any additional vet bills after his rocky start with us. He was healthy, happy, and a much-loved family member. We started noticing a bump appearing on his head. Thinking he had gotten into a scuffle with a bee or a wasp, we applied ointment and forgot about it. Then we began to notice things like him sleeping more than usual, walking in circles, and losing his appetite. That’s when we decided to take him to a specialist vet. He underwent tests, and later that day, we were met with a grim doctor. Buddy’s prognosis wasn’t good. He had a cancerous growth on his brain, and although it was still small, it would continue to grow, eventually causing paralysis. Briony and I looked at each other and asked if the growth could be removed. He was only about 8 years old at the time, and we weren’t ready to bid him farewell. Unfortunately, surgery was not an option as the growth was situated in a very delicate part of the brain, and the doctor believed that the risks outweighed the potential benefits. Our despair must have resonated with him because he asked if we would consider a more natural approach that could possibly give Buddy a few more months with us. We left with contact numbers for a human doctor who had been experimenting with cannabis, exploring its effects on the human brain and had achieved positive results. Determined to try, we set off to meet the doctor. It was late afternoon when we arrived in Johannesburg, and the traffic was terrible. We found ourselves stranded on the highway for a long time as the cars moved at a snail’s pace. By the time we reached the doctor’s house, it was already dark. I purchased the drops, received a brief explanation on how to administer them, and we departed from his home, enveloped in darkness.
Now I have been known to take the wrong turn-off on a few occasions. Once Briony and I got stuck in the middle of Alexandria when I took a left instead of taking a right. The road was at a gridlock and we were the only white faces for miles. Briony slunk down in her seat and only her eyes were showing when I saw a lady selling the most beautiful cabbages and potatoes on the side of the road. As we were at a standstill, I opened the window on Briony’s side, leaned over, and bought cabbage and potatoes while waiting for the gridlock to clear. Briony never forgave me for that. She said I scarred her for life, so when I took a wrong turn on the fateful evening that we came back from the doctor and we ended up at the taxi rank in Braamfontein, the tension was at an all-time high in the car. Briony definitely had a lip dragging on the floor, and I could see steam coming from her nose. I tried to stay positive, but it seems I was just going deeper and deeper into the center of JHB with the illegal drugs in my car. Cannabis was not legal then, and having the smallest amount on you would get you jailed. All I could think of was what I was going to say if the police stopped and searched us. Throwing the bottle out of the window was not an option; it cost an arm and two legs, so I was going to hold on to that.
Lucky for us we made our way out unscathed except for the sulking going on next to me. It was well worth the effort because that little bottle of gold gave Buddy another 6 months of good living with us. As a family we had time to prepare ourselves for the inevitable and when the time came he was put to sleep at home, lying on his favourite blanket flanked by his family. That’s how everybody should go. Tummy filled with your favourite meal with no regards concerning what it will do to your liver, a smidgeon of ice cream thrown in and then you simply go to sleep.
Buddy’s ashes are planted at the plot. There is a white rose bush gracing his grave. I am hoping he isn’t humping it.
