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NEW YORK UNEASY

       Hi

This is the one living in the city writing. The one living in the country has been indisposed to write, mainly because of the sad death of her dog Buck. Buck was 14 years old and had lived with his master and mistress all of his  life.   Buck  was part Alaskan Malamute, and part Shepherd.  In other words, Buck was light years ahead of the other dogs (mainly huskies and malamutes)   in  terms  of intelligence and also had his own brand of caninismo.  Buck spent a lot of time in wild country and developed a fierce dog insolence that was maddening as well as lovable.

       Buck reached the end of his days in the relatively tame land of Northern Minnesota, albeit during a characteristically harsh winter.  In the autumn, his mistress let him out of the kennel more often, and he got to go down to the river and treehouse with his mistress, although it wasn't easy for him.  Visits to his mistress's friend, the veterinarian, were more frequent and pills had to be forced down his throat. Towards the end, proud Buck had to be lifted to his legs.               

       Well, one day his mistress knew it was time for one last trip to the vet's, and Buck died peacefully, with his mistress at his side.

       His mistress was inconsolable until her cousin Kathy passed along some tips for writing a blues song.  They were good, too.  I may have lived in New York for twenty years, but I lived in Texas for ten years before that. Some of that was in rough places now famous for    hate crimes.  Our cousin had bumped around the back roads of Texas for a good long time   as well.

      

So, Buck's mistress wrote this song:

                               Old Dog Buck

     woke up this morning feelin' blue
     woke up this morning feelin' blue

     Ole dog Buck had to die 'for the day was through
     Ole dog Buck had to die 'for the day was through

     ole dog Buck, you were a good dog too ...
     ole dog Buck, you were a good dog too ...

     cain't tell no lie, you were plenty aggravating'
     wouldn't come, wouldn't stay, wouldn't get down, too ...

     ole dog Buck, still, gotta say, I surely loved you,
     ole dog Buck, still, gotta say, I surely loved you.

     ole dog Buck, you were a good dog, too,
     ole dog Buck, you were a good dog, too.

     “Old Dog Buck” © 2001 by Rachel "Dot" Scott
     (with thanks to Kathleen McGary for her tips on writing the blues.)

       She went up and read it to her husband, who was feeling really lousy about Buck, and he  interrupted to offer constructive criticism. Her native stubbornness kicked in.

       "Are you going to interrupt, or are you going to let me read this?"

       So she read it to him and he grunted and returned to his own thoughts about Buck. She sent it to me to read, and maybe to read to my daughter, who had known old Buck for many years, back when she was a young child and he was a young dog.  My daughter and I agreed it was way too bleak to ever be a chart topper but that it was fitting that Buck's passing be commemorated.

       Your New York Uneasy Correspondent.

© 2001 by Sarah Scott
 

MINNESOTA FOX TALES

       Buck

As a brief post-addendum to Sarah's note, I must add that I wasn't entirely inconsolable.  I can see how she might say that--in fact, I've always liked the word "disconsolate."  I'm not sure what the difference is between "inconsolable" and "disconsolate." I very much admired James Thurber, and his ability to weave that into his writing on a regular basis, whereas I almost never can.  But I was writing about Buck.

Buck's death was, once done, a relief. For the past six months I had worried daily about when,  and whether it was time.  It is an awesome responsibility, this life and death power we have over "dumb" animals.   But he was a goofy, loveable, if aggravating, dog, and we loved him.  He was more than a dog; he was a fixture in our lives--we had had him our entire married life--and now he's gone.  It broke my heart to do it, but it was time.

I once asked Jerry what he would do with the dogs if anything happened to me, and he said, "Sell them." I said, "You would sell Buck?" He said, "No!  I'd keep Buck.  Buck's FAMILY."

Buck will be cremated, and in the spring, we will bury his ashes and mark his grave with a stone, as a  reminder that he was part of our lives for so long, over so many happy trails.

Your faithful correspondent

Dot

© 2001 by Rachel Scott

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