My Buddy

My guess is that he was mistreated to make him a fighter.  And maybe he was good, but had the bad luck of an abscess on his stomach that would have killed him without treatment.

He was a limping skeleton, at the corner of South Clairborne and something. Although there was a bus stop at the corner filled with people, no one saw him until two of us had stopped. He was a TV image, or something unreal, until a human being interceded. After, the crowd was all questions, but no answers and no real interest.

I named him Buddy because he wasn’t a complex fellow; he just needed food, medicine and a bit of love.

After his healing, I couldn’t be harsh with him, knowing that he had been intentionally starved, but smart enough to escape before he was too weak. I let him get comfortable—too comfortable—and then there was no going back.

First he attacked a cat, another refugee  that had come to trust us. The cat was OK:  John needed stitches from intervention. I thought it was a fluke; a mistake of the cat for a toy. 

Valentina, who was our dog before Buddy, was used to love and gentleness from our other old dogs. Buddy needled her. We thought he was playing; but it got worse and he attacked. John was bit, again. I think Val would have died if we hadn't been there to stop it. We couldn’t keep Buddy and we couldn’t place him anywhere else that animals, or people, would be at risk. It was the most awful choice I’ve made, and I still question whether we could have done more. 

He was a beautiful, loving creature who had a short, awful life except the brief interlude with us, which I think was happy. I wish I had known more about how to take care of him and readjust him to the world of kindness.

He was my Buddy.

 - Buddy's friend, JM

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Posted February 11, 2005