Buddy (3 page)

4

We bring Buddy home that Saturday morning.

When we pull up in the car, there's Mama, standing on the front porch with her hands on her hips. She says, “Well, I never—” and then she stops. “A three-legged dog,” she says, then she turns around and goes inside the house.

Tanya's standing in the door with all her teeth showing in a grin and a ponytail sticking straight up on top of her head.

“What's that he's got around his neck?” she says.

“That keeps him from licking his cut.”

“Why would he want to lick his cut?”

“He's a dog, you fool. What do you expect?”

Daddy lifts Buddy out of the car and carries him around the house to the backyard where we have a shed leaning up against the pecan tree. I fluff up the old army blanket Mama gave me and Daddy lays Buddy down right on top.

Buddy gives a little yip when he hits that blanket and pushes around with his front feet like he wants to get away but he can't move.

“Your mama's going to need you in the house after a while,” Daddy says.

Buddy's poking his nose around in that blanket smelling everybody who's ever touched it, and that's a lot of people.

I sit myself down right beside him. “It's okay, boy,” I tell him. “It's okay now.”

“You hear me, son?”

I look up and there's Daddy with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows twisting down toward his nose.

“Yes, sir. I heard you.”

Daddy walks out and before he even gets to the house, Buddy's finished smelling the blanket. His ears are standing up tall and he's looking around like he's wondering what might jump out at him from behind all the stuff piled up in that shed.

“Ain't nothing in here,” I'm saying. “Just old junk we ain't thrown away yet.”

Buddy looks at me like he's not so sure. Then he's checking out the shed again. His eyes are flicking back and forth from the lawn mower to the rake to the torn-up window screen to the stack of paint cans to the rotten box of floor tiles

“So do you like it here?” I'm saying. “Does it suit you?”

I'm leaning around trying to see his face in that collar when all a sudden he turns around to check me out again. I straighten up and he tilts his head to one side.

“So what do you think?” I say. “Are you wondering what kind of boy it is that would bring you to a place like this?”

His mouth is hanging open and the tip of his tongue is rolling out one side. He's going, “Heh, heh, heh,” when he breathes.

He's looking at my face and my feet. He's looking at my hands to see what I might be holding but there ain't nothing there.

“Do you think I look like I can take care of you?”

He don't say nothing.

I reach out and pet his head. He gets still.

“So what are we going to do with a three-legged dog?”

I look up and there's Granpa T standing in the door with Tanya tippy-toeing around the corner right beside him. Buddy snaps his mouth shut and lays his head down. I rub his side and feel those ribs sticking up like the rails on the train track.

“Y'all ain't going to do nothing with him,” I say. “He's mine.”

All a sudden, Buddy starts whining and turning his neck every which way trying to rub that collar off.

“That ain't good,” Granpa T says.

“Stop that, Buddy.” I put my hand back on his side. “Stop that, now.”

Buddy takes his white paw and pushes at the collar a little, then flops his head back down. He rolls his big old eyes up at me and I think it's just as well he can't talk.

“He don't act like a happy dog right now,” Granpa T says.

“He will be,” I say. “He's just getting used to being here. He's going to find out I'll take such good care of him he can't help but be happy.”

Granpa T's just standing there nodding. He looks at the bowls I found for Buddy. He looks at the great big bag of food stuck in the corner.

“I see you're going to give it your best shot,” he says.

“Just give me a little time,” I say.

“Can I pet him?” Tanya pipes up.

I look over at Tanya, standing there wearing those plastic, high-heeled shoes with big old pink bows on the toe. “He's mine,” I say. “Can't nobody pet him but me.”

Tanya's shoulders go all droopy, and her thumb starts heading for her mouth.

So I say, “Oh, all right. You can pet him some.”

She comes in and squats down beside him with her knees up to her shoulders and her hands on her knees. She sticks out her hand real easy. Buddy don't move.

“Will he bite me?”

“Are you crazy?”

“He's got big teeth.”

“Those are dog teeth.”

She touches the top of his head with just her fingertips. He lifts up a little and she snatches back her hand. He sniffs her shoes. Then all a sudden, he sticks out his tongue and licks one of those bows.

Tanya jumps up screaming and hollering. Lucky for her, Granpa T grabs her before she falls over.

“Have you lost your mind?” I say. “Go on now. That's enough. He's tired.”

So they leave and I stretch out beside Buddy on the blanket.

“Don't worry about her, Buddy,” I say. “You ain't her dog. You're mine. And I ain't going to let her bother you. I promise.”

He puts his head on my stomach, collar and all, and it feels warm and heavy.

“It's just you and me now, Buddy,” I say.

I'm resting my hand on his side and laying there looking up at the tin roof. The sun's coming in through that dirty old window on the front of the shed and I think someday I ought to clean it up so Buddy can get better light when the door is shut.

The birds are singing outside, and I can hear Baby Terrell crying in the house.

“I've got to go inside in a while,” I say, “but I'll stay as long as I can.”

He shifts his head a little but he don't answer.

“If you want me to,” I say, “I can tell you a story.”

Somebody's driving down the street with his music blasting. When the music's passed, I lift up my head.

Buddy's big old eyes are watching me and waiting.

It ain't hard to take care of Buddy. He lays there waiting for me in the morning when I come in to fill his bowl and pour his water. His chin is resting on his paws. His eyes are half-closed and barely moving back and forth while he watches me fluff up his blanket and clean up his business.

“Are you doing okay this morning?” I say. “Do you like that collar any better? Is your leg hurting you? Are you tired of laying there yet?”

I rub him on his head and I lean down and put my nose between his ears and I smell that old leaf smell and the plastic collar, too. He lifts up his tongue and licks my chin and the spot stays cool for a long time.

On Monday all day long at school the teacher is going on and on about something but I don't know what it is because all I'm thinking about is Buddy. At the end of the day, we have an assembly where girls do flips and cheers, and then we all stand up and say the Pledge of Allegiance, and finally the day's over.

I'm throwing my book bag over my shoulder in the hallway and there's J-Boy watching one of those flip girls walking out the door carrying a gym bag and a sweater.

I pull up beside him, and out the door we go.

“I got the dog,” I say. “I named him Buddy.”

He don't answer.

“I'm going to paint his name on his bowls. I'm going to use that model paint from those airplanes I made at Christmas. I'm going to—”

J-Boy is still looking at that girl.

“If you keep staring at her you're going to burn a hole in her backside.”

J-Boy looks at me like he's about to say something but he don't.

The girl turns the corner so I figure maybe now he can think. “Are you learning those games?” I say.

“What games?”

“Those Game Boy games.”

“Some.”

We're standing in line to get on the bus. All the kids are pushing and shoving and can't nobody get on. You'd think they don't even want to get home from school. Finally, the driver straightens them out and we start moving.

J-Boy's looking the other way again. “J-Boy,” I say, and he turns around. “Why you ain't been by the house in so long?”

He shrugs.

We're finally climbing up the bus steps.

“Come by and see my dog,” I say, and take a front seat as usual.

“Maybe,” J-Boy says, and passes on down the aisle. He high-fives two brothers from the high school and sits down behind them.

I turn around and look out the window. The stores and churches and houses roll on by. The oak trees are spreading out their shady arms. On the corner, a little kid is sucking a snow ball and holding his mama's hand.

But I ain't thinking about them. I've decided I ain't waiting anymore for Jamilla to write me. I've decided I'm going to write her first. In my mind, I'm already writing that letter. “Dear Jamilla,” my letter will say. “Guess what. I have a dog.”

That very afternoon I write that letter and Mama sticks it in the mail. Then I fix up two bowls with Buddy's name on them. Buddy lays there the whole time watching me paint. Every once in a while his tail flicks and he grunts and moves around like he wants to get up. When the bowls are done, I try to help him. I get my hands up under him. I lift and he flops right back down. I say, “It's okay, Buddy. You just ain't strong enough yet.”

Then I lay down beside him and he puts his head on my stomach and I tell him stories. He listens to every word. Mama goes hollering for me and I tell Buddy, “Where does she think I'm at? She knows I'm right here with you.”

The next day I feel like I can't hardly sit there in school all day long. After about a thousand years, I finally get home. Mama says I have to bag three dozen pralines and I might as well get it done before I start messing with the dog. When I get out to the shed, Buddy's laying there waiting for me just like I knew he would be. We talk until dark. Then Mama makes me come inside to eat, but that's okay because Buddy's sound asleep.

The next day I try to listen to the teacher, but it's hard. I'm about to fall asleep. Eventually the teacher says tomorrow we're going to start studying New Orleans. He says we're lucky to live here and it's the best city in the world. I'm thinking that's all just fine but when is this day ever going to end. Then all a sudden the bell rings and I want to jump out of my seat singing, “Hallelujah!” but I don't do that. I just hop on the bus and head on home.

Daddy gives me a piece of wood from behind the shed, and Mama says I can use the leftover paint from when we did the kitchen last summer. It's yellow and white, and I think that's just about right. I saw that board off straight on both ends, and I paint the whole thing white. Then I paint
BUDDY'S HOUSE
with the yellow, real careful, in big square letters. It don't show up as good as I want, so I take the blue from the model paints and I outline the letters. It looks perfect.

Granpa T helps me nail it up over the door to the shed and we stand back and take a look.

“It all worked out,” I say.

“What worked out?”

“My plan. I got a dog.”

“Yep.” Granpa T nods his head. Then he slaps me on the back and starts tee-heeing. “So. I guess you must be about the happiest boy in the world,” he says. “Because there's one thing I can tell you for sure. A dog is way better than a chicken.”

5

But I ain't happy because Buddy ain't happy, and it don't seem like anything I do makes him happy.

When Daddy gets home from work that night, he comes around back and has a look at the sign nailed up on the shed and at Buddy laying there on the blanket and at me sitting there rubbing Buddy's side.

“Has he moved yet?” he asks, and I shake my head. Then he goes to sit on the front porch with Granpa T and they drink a beer.

Mama comes out and tells me I need to come inside and do my homework. I say I'm busy with Buddy. She says when Jamilla was here she could count on me to get it done before dark. I say she can count on me by myself now, and besides I don't have any. Mama says, “Hmph,” and looks down at Buddy. “That dog's fur looks like a rat's nest,” she says, and then goes back inside.

I rub Buddy's head all up under his collar and he don't move. Not even the tip of his tail. I tell him stories until he's asleep. Then I go to sit out front with Granpa T and Daddy.

Everybody's outside taking in the cool of the evening and talking back and forth from their porches. They're talking about work and ball games and how those boys down the street finally crossed the line and got what they deserved and whether Brother James is going to preach one of those “empty your pockets” sermons again for old lady Jenkins who just broke her hip.

And then one of the neighbors sings out, “Hey, Li'l T, where is that ugly, old, three-legged dog?”

And everybody laughs, like it's funny or something.

The next day when I get home from school I get an old brush out of the bottom drawer in the bathroom and I go to work on him.

He lays real still and I start at his head. I can't get that fur around his caterpillar scar to lay straight but the fur on his neck lays down softer and softer the more I brush it. I work the brush up under the collar a little and Buddy stretches back his head so I can get way up under his chin.

“You like that,” I say, and I swear he smiles.

Up under his stomach, some little wads of fur are still hanging on. I get Mama's sewing scissors and start cutting them out. Buddy half sits up and tries to watch.

“You can't see with that collar,” I say. “And anyway, you got to lay down.”

He eases back down and I start brushing again. He's watching my face and I'm talking to him.

“You think I'm crazy?” I'm saying. “Giving a dog a haircut? Brushing him with a hairbrush?”

When I run that brush over his sides, I feel the ribs—
bumpity-bump
—and Buddy's eyes start drooping shut.

“You've got to eat up, Buddy,” I say. “We've got to make you fat. You've got to get strong.”

Then I start to brush near his cut-off leg and he lifts his head up sharp and makes a low sound deep in his throat.

I stop right there. “Did you growl at me?” I just sit there for a minute and look at him.

He looks right back like he knows he's crippled now and it hurts and he feels like a fool with that great big collar going around his head.

Then he lays his head back down and I reach out to rub his nose, but he turns his face away.

I go back to brushing his neck. I don't know what else to do.

“That's all right,” I say. “We can just wait on that. There ain't no hurry. You ain't heading for a beauty contest.”

“Well,
that's
a good thing!”

I turn around and there's Granpa T, standing in the doorway again.

“He sure ain't winning a beauty contest. He's ugly as sin.”

“He's beautiful, Granpa T. You're just blind.”

“Maybe,” Granpa T says, and eases on in. “But could be you're too crazy in love to see how ugly he is.”

“Buddy don't think I'm crazy. He's glad he's living here with somebody'll brush his fur and fill up his bowl.”

I don't tell Granpa T, but I ain't sure that's true.

“Granpa T,” I say, “why do you think he won't stand up?”

“He's only got three legs, you fool,” Granpa T says. “What would you do if you only had one?”

“That vet says he ought to be getting up any day.”

Granpa T squats down by Buddy. Buddy moves his head just barely enough to see Granpa T. He don't bother to lift it up. Granpa T lays his hand on the top of Buddy's head and stretches Buddy's eyes way open. That caterpillar eyebrow wiggles up Buddy's forehead and Buddy looks straight up at Granpa T. His eyes are so dark, so brown, so soft looking. Granpa T lets go and the eyebrow slides back down. Buddy closes his eyes again and I swear he heaves a sigh.

“I think he likes you,” I say.

“He likes anybody who'll be nice to him,” Granpa T says, and rubs his finger on the caterpillar scar. “He's lucky he ain't blind.”

“What do you think he thinks,” I say, “waking up and there ain't no leg where there used to be one?”

Granpa T shrugs.

“Do you think he's scared?”

“Are you scared, Buddy?” Granpa T says, almost like he's talking to Baby Terrell.

Buddy opens his eyes.

“What are you scared of?” Granpa T says. “You've got Li'l T now. You've got this fancy shed to live in. You're laying on one of my old blankets.”

Buddy lifts up his head.

“You're ugly as sin,” Granpa T goes on. “You're ugly as sin and you stink.”

Buddy's ears are standing up. His mouth pops open. He starts going, “Heh. Heh. Heh. Heh. Heh.”

“Why don't you stand up, dog?” Granpa T says. “Come on, get up.”

Buddy's tail is swishing back and forth on the floor. He looks from Granpa T to me and back again.

Granpa T stands up. “Come on. Get up.”

Buddy raises himself up on his front feet.

“Ain't it time?” Granpa T says. “Ain't you strong enough?”

Buddy's whining and whimpering. His mouth looks like he's trying to smile but he can't quite do it.

“Come on, dog.” Granpa T is moving toward the door. “Don't you want to see what's going on out here?”

Buddy stretches his feet out like he's trying to drag himself to Granpa T.

“Rrrp!” Buddy says. “Rrrp, rrrp!”

“Come on, Buddy. Come on, boy.” Granpa T's standing at the door. He's holding one hand out to Buddy and waving the other one out the door.

And then Buddy lets out a little moaning sound and he lays back down and he turns his head toward the wall and he rests his nose on his paws.

When we take him to the vet for his checkup, the vet says his cut has pretty much healed, and he takes off that collar. I'm standing there rubbing Buddy's neck, feeling all the way down to the skin where that old collar's been wrapped around him. Buddy is half sitting up with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and looking like he remembers everything about this place, especially that old cage and how he woke up without one of his legs.

Then the vet asks how he's doing about getting around.

I can't even look at the vet. “He ain't stood up yet,” I say.

“Not at all?” the vet says.

“Not where I saw him.”

The vet gives Buddy a hard look. He feels all around under Buddy's belly. Buddy gives him a look like if he does that too much more, Buddy just might take out a little piece of his hand.

Then the vet gives him a little whomp on the behind and says, “There's nothing wrong with him. It's time for him to get up, even if you have to force him.”

When we get home, Daddy says this is the last time he's carrying Buddy. He puts him down on the blanket and leaves out.

Buddy lays there like he ain't never going to move again.

“What's wrong, Buddy?” I say. “Why ain't you happy here?”

Granpa T is standing there in the door and looking in.

“He's old,” Granpa T says. “Maybe he's just too tired. Maybe he's been knocked down so many times, he just ain't got the heart to get up anymore.”

“So you're saying he wants to die?”

“Aw, no! He's a dog! He don't want to die! I'm just saying maybe he's too tired to live. Look at his eyes. You ever seen any eyes look tireder than that?”

I look at Buddy's eyes. They look big and sad and tired. But they don't look
that
tired.

“Granpa T,” I say, “that's the stupidest thing I ever heard. That's the craziest, stupidest, wrongest, dumbest thing I ever heard in my entire life!”

“Probably so,” Granpa T says. “Ain't the first time I said something dumb.” He gives Buddy a good hard look then looks at me. “Your mama's cooking red beans,” he says. “Don't stay out here too long.” Then he turns around and heads on inside.

“He's crazy, ain't he, Buddy. He's crazy and stupid and dumb.”

I'm rubbing the place that collar used to be. Buddy's laying still as a stone and breathing soft and low.

“Right, Buddy?” I say, but Buddy don't say nothing.