THE CIRCUIT

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THE CIRCUIT
My Best Friend

He was my best friend. I had him for 15 years before his death.  I first saw him when he was six weeks old.  I saw the sign by the side of the road while we were traveling from our cottage at the end of the summer vacation.  The sign read "4 sale, puppies, $50."  My parents had said that I would be able to get a dog when I was ten.  When I saw the sign, I quickly yelled out what it read, and begged to stop. My parents looked at each other, and my father gave my mother the look that I came to recognize as that of pleading.  He wanted a dog as much as I had for years.  A kind farmer with grizzled features, a few greying hairs, and a warm smile met us at the end of the lane.  My father told him that we were inquiring about the puppies that were for sale.  The farmer brought us into a small red barn.  We were led to a ladder, which scaled the height of the ceiling, and ended in a large trap door.

As we were about to ascend up to the loft, one of the puppies fell from the square door.  I heard it's horrified squeal, and ran to catch it in my outstretched arms.  As I gazed in wonder at the tiny bundle of fur in my arms, a head about the size of my palm peeked out, and started whimpering.  The cocker spaniel puppy had soft brown eyes that held a helpless look.  There were several brown speckles in the centre of its head, while the rest of his body was white as snow.  But the most remarkable thing about the puppy was a small tuff of fur that stuck up stubbornly from the top of his head.  When I saw how he looked at me, I knew that we could never be separated. I told my parents that it was this furry creature that I desired.  The farmer looked relieved when he saw which one I would be taking home.  He explained that the puppy that I had chosen was the runt of the litter, and was always getting into mischief.  My mother got out the money, and I left the farm with a dog of my own. 

It took me a month to decide what I would call my dog.  At last I settled on Buffy, after the zany tuff of fur on his head that could not be tamed.  As Buffy grew, he developed more brown spots along his back, and his cold, wet nose turned brown.  He grew from his original puny size to a respectable length.  I had to drop him off at the groomers many times because his fur grew extremely fast, and the snow would ball up on the long hairs near his paws.  He would whine and yelp until I came to clean him up.  Although Buffy got hefty with age, his intelligence did not change from what it had been when I first saw him.  He was always getting his paws dirty in other people's business.  He learned how to jump straight up and down in the air, to see what was being served on the dinner table.   This action would delight my little sister, but my parents would make me put Buffy outside. 

Buffy was also a very curious dog.  He would try to get his nose in everything he could. Many a time I had to take out quills from the large number of porcupines that surrounded our modest, but comfortable cottage on the Rideau River.  He would get caught in the mousetraps set by our neighbour.  But most of all, Buffy was full of energy. He would run around in circles for no apparent reason.  At the cottage he would never tire chasing squirrels up trees, or swimming out after sticks.  But, as time went on, Buffy started getting old.  He would lie around the house moping, and sleeping the day away.  When I jingled his ball, he wouldn't perk up like before.  We took him to the vet, and the vet told us that it was normal for a dog of his years.  Buffy took the habit of sleeping at the head of my bed, and wouldn't even wake up when I got ready for school.  I could see that he was getting worse.  Then, on a cold, drizzling day in October, I came up the stairs to find him lying on the couch.  I called to him, but he didn't respond.  I rushed over to him, and bent low to look into his eyes, but they were glazed over, and staring straight ahead.  I realized that I had lost my best companion.  For the first time in several years, I felt hot tears stinging my face. 

We buried Buffy the next day in our backyard.  I made a small wooden coffin, and laid his stiff form into it.  My father made a headstone with an epitaph, which read, "Buffy, 1980-1995 He will never be forgotten."  As I looked at the fresh mound of dirt, and thought about what the epitaph said, I realized that nothing could ever replace the memories I had of my little cocker spaniel puppy named Buffy.