Literary Work
Zen Dog N.M. Leigh
B
uddy was my wife’s dog, at first anyhow. She adopted him as a pup from the Asher County dog pound over my objections. I had argued for a purebred so we would have some idea of what we were getting. They’re all cute as puppies. But Patty had insisted on a mongrel. That’s the word I used. She said you weren’t supposed to call them that. It’s mixed breed, she told me with that air of superiority people assume when they talk about rescuing dogs, or how, really, the dog rescued them, a sentiment expressed on a bumper sticker I’ve seen. Despite my reservations about Buddy, in time he won me over. He was part golden retriever and part lab, though he more closely resembled a golden, with his shaggy coat and slight build. As with most retrievers he was gentletempered and craved attention. He always had to have something in his mouth, so Patty bought him stuffed toys. He’d carry them around and slobber on them until they stank so bad you could smell them from across the room, and I’d throw them out. She’d buy him new ones and wrap them up as presents for him to tear open. Buddy was smart, as are a lot of dogs. What set him apart, though, and made him unlike any dog I’ve ever known, was that he possessed a remarkable calmness, a sage-like balance that emanated from him in waves. I called him Zen-dog and kiddingly theorized that in some previous life, he had been a Buddhist master. All you had to do was hang around him for a while and you’d start feeling more at ease and able to glimpse the Big Picture. I’d talk to him, and he’d stare intently at me as if he understood every word. In some ways it was more helpful talking to Buddy than Patty because he never interrupted or looked bored or made me feel stupid or petty or mean. He didn’t judge. He’d just let me go on until I’d vented whatever was bothering me, and I would be left feeling unburdened, or at least more equitable for a time. Sadly, Buddy’s wise manner was unable to smooth over everything. This became apparent when Patty and I started having marital trouble. Small arguments began to erupt between us like brush fires and frequently metastasized into rancorous disagreements. Hostile silences lasted hours and then days as our relationship unraveled over a period of months to the point where we lived together though apart in the same house. This discord troubled poor Buddy to no end. Whenever we argued, he’d get upset, whining and panting, or snatching up one of his toys and trying desperately to present it to one or the other of us, as if to
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distract us from our bickering. Sometimes he’d insert his body between ours like a boxing referee attempting to separate clenched fighters. His efforts failed. Patty and I would go on quarreling, barely noticing him because we were so consumed with ourselves. We’d give him a vacant pat and nudge him away, or even scold him for interfering. When she and I began sleeping in different rooms, he would pace all night, going first from her bed and then to where I slept on the couch. Even in the half-light of the darkened room I could see him staring plaintively at me as I lay there, as though he were trying to will some sense into me. He got very little rest and, in time, slacked off on his eating and stopped playing altogether. His coat lost its shine. You could tell he was depressed. Then one day Buddy went missing. It was late in the afternoon on a Saturday in August. I was in the garage, drinking beer and digging caked grass off the underside of the mower with a putty knife when Patty came in, distressed. She said she couldn’t find Buddy. She’d let him out to do his business and when she checked on
