For the daily prompt of Buddy.

I wasn’t going to write about this. Buddy had to mean something else to me than dogs, than ultimately losing dogs. There had to be something else.

Men who just wanted to be buddies to women or vice versa?

Buddy Guy? Buddy Rich? Buddy Harrelson? Nutty Buddy? Buddy, can you spare a dime? [But he] didn’t mean that?

But, no.

Buddy wasn’t the first, but, knock on wood, he was the last for a while to pass over the bridge while in my care.

Dogs take you into their hearts and give you theirs, without pondering. They love you, good, evil, black, white, mauve, illiterate, degenerate, mensa candidate.

They never ask for much—food, water, a pat on the head perhaps? And, yet, you hear of dogs who give even when they’ve only known the worst that human beings (those marvels who invented the word: humane) can dish up.

They’ve been used for bait or fighting or left out on a chain in the rain and snow and some are eaten, part of cuisine, and yet, there’s no dog revolution, no dog anarchy. They lick your hand. Their moist eyes compel yours, entreat you to feed, to water, to pat on the head, perhaps.

At your lows, they kiss your hand. At your highs, they run alongside you. At your even points, they are sometimes taken for granted, never asking for much: food, water, a pat, perhaps?

They have shadowed you so that you always have company in the light, dark, wind, on the beach, in the mountains, on the city park trail.

And then it comes, that day, when the sun is shrouded and the shadow disappears, and you wish for all of those even points when things were taken for granted, when they were taken for granted—the shadowing, the ball playing, the walks, the tail wagging, the boundless, effortless joy and you, maybe you just gave the basics: food, water, a pat on the head, perhaps. And,  you would do more, be more mindful of them, if you could do it again.

for you beautiful souls….