There are at least two sides to a dog like Bud, and, I am learning, to many small dogs. Outside, Bud is a relentless pain in the ass.
He chases after chickens, tries to have sex with barn cats, barks at the donkeys and tries to intimidate them, get’s in the faces of the sheep, and eats just about every disgusting thing you can find on a farm, and there are many disgusting things here.
Inside, it’s a different story. Bud is one of the most affectionate dogs I have ever had, he is a true family dog, he loves everyone who lives in the house, comes to the house, works in the house, human or animal.
He is ferociously loyal and loving to Red, he will play day and night with Fate given the chance, he loves to cuddle up with Maria at night, and when I write, he curls up by my feet, just like Red, and keeps me company.
In recent months, I’ve started taking an hour at the end of the day, I call it the Peaceful Hour. I sit in a big soft chair, put some music on, sometimes pore two thumbs of 15-year-old Scotch for me to drink. Sometimes I meditate.
No cell phones, computers or distractions.
It’s a time for me to be along, to rest, to think about things. It’s a special time, made so much more special by a most unlikely element: Bud.
I generally get up at 4 or 5 a.m. and come downstairs to read or write so I won’t bother Maria, who sleeps like a drunk. I write all morning or drive to Albany or the Mansion in the early afternoon, so I get tired.
About two months ago, Bud, who was trying to figure out what I was doing, hopped up on my lap, wedged himself between my chest and stomach – I would not have thought there was room – and joined me in my Peaceful Hour, snoring loudly and awakening every 10 minutes or so to give me a kick on the hand or chin.
Since then, he has joined me every day, the second I get into the chair. He finds a place to curl up and go to sleep – Boston Terriers make amazing noises – and stays right next to me, sometimes climbing up to put his head on my shoulder, so I can hear his snoring more clearly.
This is a new kind of intimacy. While I rest or think or sleep or read, I find my hand often goes to Bud’s head, he loves to have his head rubbed or scratched. I find this restful, healing, peaceful.
And I am very surprised a dog – any dog – would figure this out as quickly as Bud did. The border collies pay no mine to the Peaceful Hour, I think they abhor the very concept. They are eager to work all the time.
But has become an integral part of my Peaceful Hour, a warm and living and loving thing that makes it work. Bud has entered this most intimate part of my day and made it even more intimate and peaceful.
It is hard for me to reconcile this peaceful and intuitive creature with the one outside, who haunts chipmunk holes in stone walls, torments every animal on the farm at least twice a day and loves to chase geese off of the property. Outside, he is never still. Inside, he can be very still.
This duality is important in our relationship. I feel very close to Bud, we share this important moment, and he is eager to hop up in my lap. He is absolutely still, whether I am meditating, reading, or sleeping.
The Bud inside is a quiet and affectionate member of the family. The Bud outside answers to the Call of the Wild. Each compliments the other, and he has surely enriched my quiet hour, we do it together.