Remembering Buddyboy, a family’s friend for 15 years
Buddyboy Fisher-Paulson passed away on Dec. 23, 2021, from complications related to being a 15-year-old dog.
Buddy might not have been born at all had it not been for the intervention of Zane, his adoptive human brother. Buddy’s mother, Qp, had been kept safely behind closed doors during mating season, but early one Saturday, then 3-year-old Zane, not understanding all the fuss, opened the dog gate. A few minutes later, he ran into his fathers’ bedroom yelling, “Daddy! Help! Krypto is stuck on Qp!”
A few weeks later, on June 7, 2006, in the closet of the green bedroom, Beauregard Boysenberry “Buddyboy” Fisher-Paulson was born.
Buddyboy’s brother, Inqui, and sister, Jeh Jeh, were adopted by the Ueber family of Pacifica.
The peripatetic Pekingese’s hobbies included begging for chicken, chewing Mr. Rope and barking at Sparky, an Australian shepherd who was more than four times his size. Buddy frequently invoked Mark Twain: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight. It’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
Although homeschooled after failing out of an obedience lycee, Buddy could bark in seven languages, including Poodle, Pomeranian and Cocker Spaniel.
A champion sleeper, Buddy was at one time a Doglympics hopeful, considered the “greatest napper of his generation.” His proudest accomplishment, however, was chewing through every single shoe in his adoptive father Kevin’s closet. “Those work boots were tough,” he conceded, “but I couldn’t lay off his blue suede shoes.”
Ruth Cow, a neighbor who lives on the roof down the block, remembered Buddy as “the nicest dog in the neighborhood. A lot of people think of Pekes as standoffish, but really, Buddy would sniff anyone’s butt.”
Buddy never competed with brother Bandit for alpha status in the family. He seemed content with his title of Buddyboy, the Beta. “It’s alliterative that way,” he liked to think.
He did not die alone. One of his favorite humans, Papa Brian, sat with him in the late hours of the night, in his beloved living room, the rain tapping on the roof. Brian scratched his ears and told him it was OK to go, that he had been a good dog. Indeed, he had been a great dog.
No one records last barks, but his might have been: “I have lived in this bungalow all my days, and you are the pack I love.”
Buddy is survived by his adoptive family, the Fisher-Paulsons of the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior. His niece, Queenie, to whom he left his beloved Mr. Rope, has been howling and sitting with Papa on the rocker, just as Buddy used to do.
Said his adoptive father Kevin: “He was the best of us. No one ever wagged his tail quite so much to see me. He embodied his name — Buddy — which means both brother and friend. Any of the good that I have done in the past few years, it has been because I wanted to be as great as he seemed to think I was.”
He added: “It is unfair that a dog’s life is so short when they make our lives so rich. Buddyboy taught me to enjoy the moment, for the moment slips all too fast.”*
We don’t know if there’s a rainbow bridge. We don’t know if all dogs go to heaven. We know this: Buddy’s life was all about joy, and we are all better for having known him.
Buddy is being cremated and his ashes will be scattered in his beloved backyard of the Bedlam Blue Bungalow, near the golden amber tree that he loved to scratch. His brother Bandit may offer a eulogy, which will likely consist of sniffing the lawn and marking the spot of Buddy’s cremains.
In lieu of flowers, which Queenie would just eat anyway, the family has asked that you donate a piece of chicken to your dog tonight. If you do not have a dog, a cat will do. If you are somehow not lucky enough to live with a pet, consider donating to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
Rest in peace, Buddy.