In memory of Bucky: March 23, 1998 – April 23, 2009
He was born in Wittmann, Arizona. Other than that and the fact that his mother was a border collie, not much else was known about him. The little waif wound up at the Arizona Humane Society, with iris defects in both eyes and an abdominal hernia. While in the Humane Society's kennel, he also picked up a good case of kennel cough. In June of 1998, I spotted him and thought he was a pretty handsome dog. We found out that he was born the night before our Charley-dog died from ingesting a garden poison. That sealed the deal. He was meant to be with us.
I named him Bucky in honor of William O. "Bucky" O'Neill, who as a captain in the famed Rough Riders, died in front of San Juan Hill during the Spanish-American War in 1898, a century before. We had to quarantine him for several weeks to prevent our other dogs from getting kennel cough. The plucky little fella toughed it out sealed in our main bathroom. Then we discovered he had a hernia, which the folks at the Humane Society were nice enough to repair for him. From then on, he was known as our "Lucky, plucky Bucky." He had respiratory problems for all of his life, breathing a heavy rasp when he was excited or over-exerted. He, and we, accepted that as a way of life, and our plucky boy carried on in spite of all his disabilities.
His favorite thing to do when he wanted attention was to jump up on a couch and do his "charming dog" routine. He'd roll over on his back with all four paws in the air, looking at you upside down in a wall-eyed sort of way and grinning from ear to ear. He was begging for a belly rub, and because he was irresistible, he'd always get one from either Kaydie or me.
He was the most accomplished and endearing beggar I ever saw. He knew when you were finished at the dinner table, and then he'd automatically come over, sit down, and alternately look at you and the plate of leftovers he coveted. No barking, no pushiness, just genuine concern that with all the starving children in China or elsewhere, a dog as deserving as he could surely help you not to waste food. He was hard to turn down.
Bucky was one of the sweetest dogs ever. He'd romp with his little brother Joe and when Joe got too rambunctious, he'd put him down, lay a paw over him, and give him doggy kisses until he settled down. With great regularity, he'd come over to Kaydie and me and give us kisses just to let us know he loved us.
Every morning he took delight in sharing a cup of coffee with me. He liked it with milk and sweetener, and if there was a dollop of Bailey's Irish cream in it, he took special delight in finishing the few tablespoons at the bottom of my cup. He'd often give me a lick on the hand when he was through, as though to say "thanks."
Bucky had his own alarm clock. He knew just when to get up in the morning, when breakfast should be served to him and his pack, and when it was time for their evening dinner. He'd let you know with some charming grinning, a few kisses, and a waggy tail.
In spite of his gentle nature, Bucky was territorial and would protect our property when we were gone. I always felt the house was in good hands with him. He terrorized the poor mailman, who was reluctant to ring the bell when he had to deliver a package, as Bucky would sound like a snarling King Kong. His bark was worse than his non-existant bite, though. He was a really good alarm dog.
For most of his years, right up until the end, Bucky would hit the sack when I did, snuggling up in bed and giving me some good night kisses before he retired to the foot of the bed. He always woke up as our "happy dog in the morning," wagging his tail and eager to start the day with his doggy buddies. He was the personification of a great attitude.
His day started normally today. He was in good spirits, eating his breakfast, eagerly downing his morning "cheese" in which I routinely wrapped a baby aspirin for him to help with his apparent arthritis. In dog years, Bucky was about 77. I was on the computer this afternoon, and when I finished my e-mail, I called for Bucky, as I hadn't seen him for a while. I couldn't find him. He wasn't outside, and he didn't respond to my increasingly frantic calls. I went to the dog door in the back bedroom, and found him lying next to it. He didn't respond to my voice. He didn't respond to my touch. I was devastated. Completely devastated.
Our good friend, loyal dog and beloved companion is gone. He will be cremated and buried in our back yard. And he will be forever missed. Good boy, Bucky. There was never another one like you. My fondest hope is that we'll see you again someday on the far side of that rainbow bridge. Godspeed, buddy.
He was born in Wittmann, Arizona. Other than that and the fact that his mother was a border collie, not much else was known about him. The little waif wound up at the Arizona Humane Society, with iris defects in both eyes and an abdominal hernia. While in the Humane Society's kennel, he also picked up a good case of kennel cough. In June of 1998, I spotted him and thought he was a pretty handsome dog. We found out that he was born the night before our Charley-dog died from ingesting a garden poison. That sealed the deal. He was meant to be with us.
I named him Bucky in honor of William O. "Bucky" O'Neill, who as a captain in the famed Rough Riders, died in front of San Juan Hill during the Spanish-American War in 1898, a century before. We had to quarantine him for several weeks to prevent our other dogs from getting kennel cough. The plucky little fella toughed it out sealed in our main bathroom. Then we discovered he had a hernia, which the folks at the Humane Society were nice enough to repair for him. From then on, he was known as our "Lucky, plucky Bucky." He had respiratory problems for all of his life, breathing a heavy rasp when he was excited or over-exerted. He, and we, accepted that as a way of life, and our plucky boy carried on in spite of all his disabilities.
His favorite thing to do when he wanted attention was to jump up on a couch and do his "charming dog" routine. He'd roll over on his back with all four paws in the air, looking at you upside down in a wall-eyed sort of way and grinning from ear to ear. He was begging for a belly rub, and because he was irresistible, he'd always get one from either Kaydie or me.
He was the most accomplished and endearing beggar I ever saw. He knew when you were finished at the dinner table, and then he'd automatically come over, sit down, and alternately look at you and the plate of leftovers he coveted. No barking, no pushiness, just genuine concern that with all the starving children in China or elsewhere, a dog as deserving as he could surely help you not to waste food. He was hard to turn down.
Bucky was one of the sweetest dogs ever. He'd romp with his little brother Joe and when Joe got too rambunctious, he'd put him down, lay a paw over him, and give him doggy kisses until he settled down. With great regularity, he'd come over to Kaydie and me and give us kisses just to let us know he loved us.
Every morning he took delight in sharing a cup of coffee with me. He liked it with milk and sweetener, and if there was a dollop of Bailey's Irish cream in it, he took special delight in finishing the few tablespoons at the bottom of my cup. He'd often give me a lick on the hand when he was through, as though to say "thanks."
Bucky had his own alarm clock. He knew just when to get up in the morning, when breakfast should be served to him and his pack, and when it was time for their evening dinner. He'd let you know with some charming grinning, a few kisses, and a waggy tail.
In spite of his gentle nature, Bucky was territorial and would protect our property when we were gone. I always felt the house was in good hands with him. He terrorized the poor mailman, who was reluctant to ring the bell when he had to deliver a package, as Bucky would sound like a snarling King Kong. His bark was worse than his non-existant bite, though. He was a really good alarm dog.
For most of his years, right up until the end, Bucky would hit the sack when I did, snuggling up in bed and giving me some good night kisses before he retired to the foot of the bed. He always woke up as our "happy dog in the morning," wagging his tail and eager to start the day with his doggy buddies. He was the personification of a great attitude.
His day started normally today. He was in good spirits, eating his breakfast, eagerly downing his morning "cheese" in which I routinely wrapped a baby aspirin for him to help with his apparent arthritis. In dog years, Bucky was about 77. I was on the computer this afternoon, and when I finished my e-mail, I called for Bucky, as I hadn't seen him for a while. I couldn't find him. He wasn't outside, and he didn't respond to my increasingly frantic calls. I went to the dog door in the back bedroom, and found him lying next to it. He didn't respond to my voice. He didn't respond to my touch. I was devastated. Completely devastated.
Our good friend, loyal dog and beloved companion is gone. He will be cremated and buried in our back yard. And he will be forever missed. Good boy, Bucky. There was never another one like you. My fondest hope is that we'll see you again someday on the far side of that rainbow bridge. Godspeed, buddy.
