I was happy living alone. Then, Buddy came into my life. How could I not love him? | Opinion

I wasn’t looking for a relationship.

I was newly divorced — after 46 years married — living blissfully alone in my charming little cottage on the Oregon Coast. I had neighbors who welcomed me like a long-last family member, a church nestled in the bosom of ancient redwoods in the coastal forest, and a job I loved at a spectacular Safeway store cantilevered over the ocean. I had it all.

So no, I was not looking for a relationship.

I knew about relationships. Duties. Obligations. Responsibilities. Compromises. Someone else’s needs and wants and ideas to be considered, non-stop.

Yes, I knew about relationships. And I was not looking for one!

Opinion

Then why?

Was it his big brown sad eyes? His glossy, black, floppy ears that now perked up only rarely? The fact that he wrapped his neck around my ankle and silently, patiently waited for me to realize that yes, I did need a relationship?

Because he needed one. In the worst way.

His future was looking bleak. His owner, my cousin and best friend all our lives together, Cherill, had died. I had been her caregiver during the last part of her life. I spoke on behalf of our family the night before her funeral at the Greek Orthodox Church in Modesto. I likened her to “The Worthy Woman” as described in Proverbs. Cherrill was all of that.

That had all been done with great love and the sharing of much joy and sadness, too, for a life well-lived that had blessed hundreds. Now, my bags were packed for the return to my life in Depoe Bay.

But there sat Buddy: His sad eyes and downcast ears. His neck craned around my ankle. No one wanted him. Newly orphaned, he needed a relationship in the worst way.

But what about me? My independent life? My walks on Gleneden Beach in the early morning fog? My ability to just get in the car and go wherever and whenever the urge struck me? The freedom to live my life to please myself without the need to accommodate, compromise, consider?

I was not looking for a relationship!

And yet. . . there sat Buddy.

We pulled out of Satriles Lane onto Michigan Avenue and then Paradise Road — me in the driver’s seat and Buddy at high alert on the rear seat. By the time we reached Carpenter Road, he was crying — not barking or howling, but crying. I thought, “This won’t last long. He’ll settle down.”

But it lasted. He cried and cried. I had never owned a dog. I was a cat-person. I had no idea what the problem might be. So, I stopped and walked him. Maybe he needed to pee. And I gave him water. Maybe he was thirsty. And I tried a bit of kibble. Maybe he was hungry. And still, he cried.

Not little mewls. His cries were packed with great, sad, heartrending despair.

About two hours into my usual 10- to 12-hour drive, I stopped at a convenience store. At the rate we were going, it would take twice that long. Gripping my phone, not knowing what else to do, I called my younger son who was already back in New York City. Through great gulping sobs, I blurted out, “Jason, Buddy doesn’t want to go to Oregon!”

Calmly, Jason said, “Mom, you and Buddy have both been through a lot in the last couple of weeks. Give him a chance.”

Somehow, that made a difference. What Jason said was true. Could I just do my job — drive the car — and let Buddy do what he needed to do? Could I just let him grieve, if that’s what this was about?

I got back in the driver’s seat, reentered Interstate 5 and headed north. Buddy sat in the back seat and cried.

Eventually, he exhausted himself. Blessed quiet reigned.

When we reached my little home in the darkest middle of the night after that long, long day, I still had to bathe Buddy. He was filthy from weeks of very little attention in an outdoor kennel while we took care of Cherrill. I knew he would have to be on the bed with me if there was any hope at all of sleep that night. So, I bathed him. And, finally, we crawled into bed.

At 5:00 a.m. the next morning, I was awakened by Buddy standing astride my chest looking at me expectantly. But expecting what? I threw on some clothes and we headed out the door.

Thus began our life together.

I’m sure you have some idea where I’m going with this. Buddy charmed his way into the hearts of everyone in Willark Park where I lived. He went everywhere I went, except to work.

When I worked, he stayed with my neighbors, Joe and Barb Cooper, who treated him like the prince he was.

With me and my good friend, Barb Elliott, Buddy and his best friend Gusto became visiting “Comfort Dogs” at the assisted living facility in Lincoln City. People who had not spoken or actively participated in life around them for extended periods came alive when Gusto or Buddy calmly sat at their feet or lay quietly beside them in bed. They fondly spoke of pets precious to them long ago.

In the Fourth of July Parade, I was “Stanley,” the Tanger Mall Moose, and Buddy was my proudly marching sidekick.

Together, we hiked five miles every day on Gleneden Beach. This became Buddy’s “home away from home.” He conversed with the seals that barked off the coast. He chased sea gulls as they stayed tantalizingly close, laughing and scolding at his futile efforts. He sniffed sea stars and dug up crabs. He exuberantly ran in circles, exalting in the joy of the new life he was living in this pristinely beautiful place he believed was designed specifically for him.

Was there accommodation, compromise and consideration? Yes. And, here’s what I found: It didn’t matter at all.

In “The Road Less Traveled,” psychiatrist M. Scott Peck says, “When we love someone, our love becomes demonstrable or real only through our exertion — through the fact that for that someone . . . we take an extra step or walk an extra mile.”

Buddy did that for me.

Is there anything as pure as the selfless love offered to us by a “someone” who has no hidden agendas or ulterior motives?

How could I not love him? Before I was aware of it myself, he knew I needed that relationship.

Buddy and I spent 10 years together. He now rests close to where he was born on Paradise Road.

Author Jodi Picoult, in “The Art of Racing in the Rain,” dedicates the book to “anyone who knows that some of our best friends walk beside us on four legs; that compassion isn’t only for humans; and that the relationship between two souls who are meant for each other never really comes to an end.”

Buddy knew I needed to learn that.

Bunny Stevens lives in Modesto, her hometown, and has served on The Modesto Bee Community Advisory Board. She is the opening courtesy clerk at the Safeway supermarket on McHenry Avenue and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. She has also been known to represent the Easter Bunny and Santa’s Elf for children of all ages. Reach her at BunnyinModesto@gmail.com