Buddy

by M. H. Herlong

  “What is wrong?” Mama yells, and then Tanya stops and I can hear the rain coming down like a waterfall on the porch roof outside the window.

  “I had a dream,” she says, “and Buddy died.”

  “That dog,” Mama says, and rolls her eyes. She reaches around Tanya and hugs her up, and Tanya’s kind of crying a little, and Daddy comes limping into the room carrying Baby Terrell.

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  “Bad dream,” I say, and the thunder rolls.

  Daddy sits down on my bed holding Baby Terrell, who’s smelling like a wet diaper.

  “I think I broke my toe,” Daddy says.

  And then Granpa T hustles in the door and says, “What the blue blazes is going on?”

  “Bad dream,” I say again.

  Granpa T looks over at Tanya. The way Tanya’s hair is standing out all over her head, she sure looks like she had a bad dream. “What were you dreaming about?” he says.

  Tanya’s digging her fists in her eyes and Mama’s rubbing her back and then Tanya hiccups and she says, “Buddy.”

  “We’re all tearing around the house in the dark because you’re dreaming about that dog?” Granpa T says.

  Tanya nods. “He died,” she says, and the lightning flashes all over the room.

  “In your dream,” I say.

  “For true,” she says, and looks at me with her great big old, wet eyes. Then they start overflowing again. “He couldn’t never stand up and so he died,” she says. “And he grew angel wings and flew up, and we were all standing on the ground watching.”

  “That ain’t scary,” I say, looking out the window toward where the shed is.

  “I ain’t finished,” she says. “And then a hand came out the sky. A giant hand. And it snatched him up and whisked him off into the clouds.”

  Mama hugs Tanya up so tight, Tanya says, “Umph.”

  “That’s the hand of God,” Mama says. “He took Buddy to dog heaven.”

  Tanya’s tears are starting up again. “But the hand was scary,” she says. “And now Buddy’s gone.”

  “It was a dream,” Daddy says. “Buddy’s sleeping in the shed.” Daddy looks out the window. “He’s in a dry place for a change. He’s a happy dog tonight.”

  “He’s dead,” Tanya says. “He’s gone, gone, gone.” She’s looking down at her hands now and the tears are just rolling down her face.

  “That’s foolishness,” Granpa T says. “You need to be quiet now so your daddy can sleep. He’s got to work in the morning. T Junior, go change that baby’s diaper and put him back in the bed. Everybody, go back to sleep.”

  Mama kisses up Tanya real good and pulls the covers up to her chin. She walks out the door and flips off the light. Me and Tanya are laying there in the dark listening to the rain and watching the lightning on the wall.

  I’m thinking about Buddy laying in the dark outside. That shed’s dry, but it’s got a tin roof and when it rains, it’s so noisy you can’t hardly hear the thunder.

  “He didn’t never stand up?” I say real quiet.

  “No,” Tanya says. “And then a big hand came.”

  “Do you think Buddy could die from laying down?”

  “He already did. And he grew angel wings.”

  “He ain’t dead.”

  “I saw it. I didn’t tell that part. He laid down on his side and he closed his eyes and he was still all over. And then his whole body started to twinkling like a holy spirit was in it and then, boom, he was on his feet and he had angel wings.”

  “You dreamed it.”

  “I saw it. He’s dead.”

  I sit up in my bed. “You’re just a baby. You can’t tell the difference between for true and dreaming. You dreamed he’s dead!”

  “I saw it! With my own eyes!”

  Daddy busts open the door. “Y’all be quiet. We’re trying to go to sleep now.”

  “She says—”

  “Be quiet. I mean it.” Daddy slams the door. The dark fills up the room. I hear Tanya breathing all jaggedy next to me. In my mind I see Buddy laying on that green army blanket. He’s got it all pushed into bumps and hills. He’s got his nose resting on his front feet. His sides are going in and out with breathing. And then in my mind, his sides stop going. Everything freezes up. There ain’t no twinkling. He turns to stone. And then he’s gone.

  In the morning it’s still raining so hard Daddy can’t go to work. The TV says schools are closed. They’ve got flooding up on Claiborne Avenue and the street out in front of the house is a river. I dress and find an umbrella while Mama is still looking in the refrigerator for Baby Terrell’s bottle. Daddy says to go see if we got a paper, but I ain’t listening. I’m out the back door and splashing through the puddle at the foot of the steps. I’m standing at the shed where that sign says buddy’s house like it’s so proud or something, and then I’m opening the door.

  I’m opening the door and—

  And there’s Buddy, standing up on three legs. He’s standing there all by himself with his white foot in his water bowl and that old blanket all gathered up under his feet and his tail just a-going. That caterpillar eyebrow is cocked to one side, and he’s grinning straight at me.

  “Rrrruuff!” Buddy says.

  I scream and Tanya comes running outside holding her doll by the hair and splashing through the rain.

  “He’s dead?” she’s yelling. “I saw it! He’s dead!”

  “He ain’t dead,” I say. “He’s alive! And he’s standing up!”

  Then we’re both standing there looking at Buddy.

  “Ruff!” Buddy says. “Ruff, ruff!” His ears are standing up on his head and he’s grinning like he’s prouder of himself than he’s ever been in his life.

  “But there ain’t no wings,” Tanya says. “Mama! Mama! Come see.”

  And here comes Mama, right through the rain with the baby on her hip and a dishrag in her hand, and she says, “Well, I’ll be.”

  And by the time Daddy and Granpa T get outside, Buddy’s starting to walk. He hops and steps and hops and steps and then he’s standing right in front of me. He reaches up his nose and pokes it in my stomach, and it tickles and I laugh, and I sing out, “Hallelujah!”

  And then I get down on my hands and knees. I hug him around the neck. His fur is warm and soft, and he’s smelling like those old, wet leaves again. He’s shaking all over and his tail is whapping against that torn-up screen propped beside the door.

  I lean back and I look in his eyes. “You’re my buddy,” I say, and he’s licking my nose and my mouth and my eyes and going, “Ruff, ruff!” in my ear, and I’m laughing so hard I fall backwards into the rain and I look up at the sky and I swear I see that old sun just starting to break through.

  7

  We can’t let Buddy out of the shed that first day because everything is too wet, but come Saturday, I open that door in the morning and I say, “Today is your day, Buddy. Today you get to come outside.”

  He pokes his nose out the door and his ears go prp!—standing straight up on the top of his head. He looks around at the tree waving its leaves and at the top of the fence where the cat’s claw vine is busting out with yellow flowers, and he starts barking up a storm, standing there with his nose pointing at the tree like he’s trying to show me something.

  “That’s just squirrels,” I say. “Ain’t nothing new.”

  He looks at me like he wants to make sure I know what I’m talking about, and then he starts exploring. He’s got his own way of walking. His one back foot has to do double time to keep up with his two front feet. He’s slow and wobbly, but he gets where he’s going.

  First, he hobbles over to where the fence meets up with the shed and he starts sniffing at the ground, poking his nose at every stick that fell out of the trees, cr
uising across that half-dead grass to check out the pecan tree, pushing a rotten old pecan along the ground. Then he snugs up next to the tree, walks in a circle twice, and lays himself down in a spot of dirt between two roots sticking up out of the ground.

  “Is that your place, Buddy?” I say, and he looks me in the eye and goes, “Rrruff,” and I guess that means, “Yes, it is, and don’t bother me when I’m laying here.”

  About that time Daddy bangs open the back door and leans halfway out. “It’s Saturday,” he yells.

  “I know that.”

  “You know what it means?”

  I can’t help it. I roll my eyes.

  “Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

  “I ain’t rolling my eyes. And I know I’m supposed to mow the yard. But there ain’t hardly any grass.”

  “There’s enough. And the front yard needs it bad.”

  Ever since we moved into Granpa T’s house, cutting the grass has been my job. Granpa T says that’s half the reason he asked us to move in. He says after almost forty years going around and around the same yard, he’s tired of cutting that grass. He figures he’s got a grandson who can do it so it’s time to turn over the reins. That first summer he showed me how to gas up the lawn mower and run it back and forth so I don’t miss any spots. At first I couldn’t pull the cord and Granpa T did it for me, but I finally got the knack and I don’t need anybody’s help anymore.

  I don’t get anybody’s help either. It’s all on me.

  So I go over to the shed and roll out the lawn mower. Buddy perks up when he sees me. I’m guessing he probably didn’t know that smelly old thing sitting in his house could move. While I’m gassing it up, he limps over and stands right smack up next to me, his mouth hanging open and his eyes watching what I’m doing with the gas can. He jerks his head back when he gets a little whiff of the fumes and then leans down to check out the wheels and sniff the dead grass still stuck on the sides.

  “What’s so interesting about this old lawn mower, Buddy?” I say, and he looks up at me with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.

  “When I start this thing up, it’s going to blow your ears out and scare you to death.”

  His tail just keeps on wagging. His mouth looks like he’s grinning and his eyes look like they’ve got little sparkles dancing around in them.

  “Go on back to your place by the tree.”

  “Rruff!”

  “I mean it, Buddy. Go on!” and I fling out my hand and he starts to jump like he thinks I’m throwing something and—whomp—he falls over.

  “Buddy!” I’m squatting down to help him up, but before I get all the way down, he’s standing up again and panting at me like he’s waiting for me to do something.

  “What do you want, Buddy?” I say.

  He takes a step away from me then he takes a step back toward me. He never stops looking at me, his eyes all bright and shiny, his mouth open, and his ears perked up.

  “He wants you to throw a ball.”

  I look up and there’s Granpa T in the back door.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I use my eyes.”

  “I ain’t got a ball.”

  “Baby Terrell does. Hold on a minute.”

  Granpa T heads in the house and I look down at Buddy. “What do you know about chasing a ball?”

  “Catch!” Granpa T says, and I look up. Before I can figure out what he’s doing, Granpa T’s already thrown the ball toward the back fence and Buddy’s hobbling to it the best he can. Buddy pokes around in the brush against the fence and, sure enough, he finds that ball and brings it straight back to me.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I say, and take it from him.

  “Somebody’s taught him to play catch,” Granpa T says. “He ain’t a stray. He used to be somebody’s pet.”

  I look up. The back door slams and Granpa T is gone.

  It don’t take me long to mow the yard. In the front, there are just little squares on either side of the sidewalk because Mama’s got bushes and flowers up next to the house and along the fence. And the grass ain’t hardly growing yet with the oak tree next door putting so much shade on the yard. In the back, I get it all cut in about two passes while Buddy’s standing just inside the shed, barking.

  When I get the lawn mower all parked again, I pick up the ball and throw it. Sure enough, Buddy goes after it and brings it back. I throw it again. He brings it back. It’s wet with slobber.

  His sides are heaving when he tries to draw breath. I lift up my hand to throw the ball again but he heads on over to the pecan tree and sits down.

  I sit down beside him and we listen to the sounds all around us. The squirrels are chucking in the bushes and the birds are chirp, chirping their warnings to each other. There are kids playing in the next block. There are air conditioners running. There are cars and trucks in the streets. The tree frogs are singing in the trees and the people are talking when they walk by. There are sirens and that beep, beep sound when working trucks back up.

  Buddy lays his head on my leg and I start rubbing him. I touch that old caterpillar scar and he closes his eyes.

  “Where did you get that, Buddy?” I say, and his tail goes flip just once.

  “Did you run away?” I say. “Were they mean to you?”

  The end of his tail flicks a little in the dust.

  “Or did they just leave you in the street one day?”

  I rub my hand all the way down to Buddy’s cut-off leg. He don’t even twitch.

  “I’ve heard about people doing that. What kind of people would just leave their dog like that?”

  Somebody walking down the street is yelling into his cell phone. Buddy looks up for a second then puts his head back down.

  “They didn’t love you like I love you, Buddy.”

  All a sudden a squirrel goes galloping along the top of the fence.

  Buddy’s up and barking before I can move. He’s stepping all over me and his claws are scratching my legs and then—wham—down he goes, right in my lap. By the time he gets himself straightened up that squirrel is all the way at the top of the pecan tree.

  Buddy’s panting in my face and looking up in the tree like he’s wondering what I’m planning to do about that squirrel.

  And I’m laughing myself silly. “You crazy old dog,” I say, and hug him up around the neck. “Can’t nobody ever love you like I love you.”

  “Ruff!” Buddy says. “Ruff, ruff!”

  And I swear that dog smiles.

  8

  Sunday morning when we get back from church, Buddy’s barking up a storm again in the backyard.

  “What the blue blazes is wrong with that dog?” Granpa T says.

  I’m hopping out of the car and running to the back without even unbuttoning my collar, and there’s Buddy, standing under the tree and barking at something on the roof of the shed. When he draws a breath, I can hear a squirrel chucking away, telling all his squirrel friends to get out of the way because there’s some kind of crazy dog living under the pecan tree now.

  “Buddy!” I’m yelling. “Buddy, be quiet. It’s just a squirrel!”

  But Buddy keeps on barking and that squirrel keeps on chucking.

  “Have you lost your mind?” I say. “What’s the matter with—?”

  And then I see it. Laying on the ground between Buddy’s two front feet is a teeny, tiny baby bird. It’s so tiny, it don’t have any feathers at all. It’s just a ball of gray.

  “Granpa T! Come see. It’s a bird.”

  And here comes Granpa T, hustling around the corner of the house, cussing Buddy, and complaining about the heat.

  All a sudden, Buddy stops barking. There ain’t no chucking either.

  “Better get it quick before he eats it,” Granpa T s
ays.

  “Buddy ain’t going to—”

  “Quick!” Granpa T says, and I look and Buddy’s bending down, looking at the bird.

  I can’t hardly move.

  Buddy touches it with his nose and I step forward.

  “Don’t eat that bird, Buddy,” I say.

  He looks up, panting and grinning at me.

  “What do you want with that baby bird?”

  Buddy’s ears are all perked up and his tail is wagging.

  I hold out my hand and Buddy says, “Rruff!”

  Then he backs up in his wobbledy way and stands watching me and Granpa T.

  I bend down and pick up the little, bitty bird. He’s so scared he don’t move an eye. Buddy’s tail is going a mile a minute.

  I turn around to Granpa T. “He ain’t going to eat no bird,” I say. “He’s saving it from the squirrels.”

  “Dogs don’t do that,” Granpa T says.

  “Buddy did,” I say.

  Granpa T ain’t got no answer to that.

  Tanya says she wants to keep that bird for her pet since I’ve got Buddy but Granpa T says it’s too little to leave its mama and we’ve got to try to put it back. So we spend the rest of the afternoon trying to get that bird back in his nest. Buddy can’t take his eyes off us with the ladder propped up against the trunk and me dangling off a limb halfway up the tree. He’s stumbling around under the tree, whining and yipping so much we finally shut him up in the shed. He keeps on whining but at least nobody’s going to trip over him.

  We look and look and can’t find that bird’s nest. In the end, we make a new nest with an old basket from out of the shed. Tanya stuffs it full of dry grass and cries when we stick it in some branches where the mama can find it.

  “But the squirrels’ll come back,” she says.

  “Can’t do nothing about the squirrels,” Daddy says. “If you got a pecan tree in the backyard, you going to have squirrels. Li’l T, let that dog out of the shed before he drives us all crazy.”