| Biographical Non-Fiction posted March 26, 2025 |
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Alls Well That Ends Well
Ain't Necesarily So
by Tom Horonzy
Yesterday, I stirred to wake with a purpose to write. Thought of nothing on the edge of the bed. Laid back down and began cutting Zzzz's again, but not today, for as I went to doze last night after watching Marley and me, a wholesome movie about a guy and a dog adopted as a pup at eight weeks old, I awoke knowing, but not a second before, what I would pen. Here goes.
It was the Spring of 2009. My graduating seventeen-year-old daughter and I stopped by the rescue shelter in Spartanburg, South Carolina, for a look-see, and found an eight-week-old Bearded Collie look-seeing back at us. (That's him you see, bottom row, second from the left, for those reading this entry on FanStory)
Black and white and cute as a baby hedgehog all balled up, wagging his tail as puppies are apt to do. Immediately, even though we were only there for a preview, the rascal knew, I presumed from the smirk he wore, he had found a home.
How he had lasted until we arrived had to be done by divine intervention with a side serving of satanic temptation.
Once the paperwork was completed, the tally for adoption fees, licensing, vaccinations, collar, leash, food, brush, two bowls, nail clipper, brush, and toys was five hundred forty-six dollars and thirteen cents, so I added a pup chew for twenty-five cents to avoid being jinxed immediately.
That lasted about twenty minutes, for as I drove into our circular drive, my wife's ever-effervescent smile turned stupor as "Buddy" bolted from his perch on the front seat to land at her feet, paws up, looking for a belly rub. "Tom Horonzy. What have you gone and done?" One of the two males present had just earned a night in the dog house, which had not even been purchased.
My wife grew up on a farm, and though her family owned dogs, cats, pigs, chickens, opossums, and other critters, none were inside pets. On the other hand, in my clan, pets were family and had the same rights and privileges as the kids. So, Buddy got to stay inside that night beside the wife's bed while I slept on the veranda by the pool. That lasted a week or so when she gave in, allowing me to shower, shave, and change clothes, but insisted further pet adoptions were to be decided jointly.
Buddy ruled the roost. I learned to be a good pet. Since he could not open doors himself, he would come to me at pre-arranged times and with doleful eyes give me "The look" indicating it was time to relieve himself, or that it was time for exercise. So, regardless of what I was doing, his expectations were to be met. I felt like a postman. "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night..."
Buddy loved sharing the game of golf with me but insisted I drive since he was neither of age nor licensed. Two stories to share regarding the game follow.
Our home is annexed to the Meadowbrook Golf Course in North Carolina, which made it easy to play nine holes a few nights each week, where Bud-man was leashed to the passenger seat, riding high and mighty, taking in the scenery. Well, there came a time with no one around where I thought 'what the hell.' What would Bud do unloosed? Bad idea! He either heard a sound or smelled a scent, for off he took like a hound to the fox, save for the fact it was a herd of deer across the creek which he cleared without getting his feet wet. I thought I would never see him again. I waited, and waited, and waited, hearing his howls for an hour, as the sky grew dark, darker and darkest, when he returned tuckered out, tattered with briars and all kinds of matter.
The other story is how we enjoyed shagging balls together in my yard. I would wedge shots ninety-odd yards to various targets. Buddy, having stationed himself down range, ears alert to the crack of the club and the plop of the ball, would scurry and collect multiple pellets to deposit into one of three piles constructed. His Herculean effort made recovering them easier. How I kept missing his head was miraculous, but he never saw it as a threat.
Anyhow, on a Friday morning I went to shag a bag of balls and found my friend as limp as a wet towel. He was warm to the touch and moaned a little, but in due time seemed to recover. We passed it off as his finding an interesting road kill for dinner.
Saturday arrived, and there he lay, looking like death warmed over. We drove to the vet, who immediately X-rayed him to find three balls aligned in his colon, likely swallowed when he hurdled a hollow trying to deposit his mouth full of Titleists. We return home with an eight-inch zipper and a recommendation from his physician that Buddy retire from his caddying days, thus requiring the dynamic duo to find another hobby, and so, with a hoe for me and a paw for him, we are the latest generation of woebegone gardeners in the Green Creek Community.
We shared a life for fourteen years, as John Grogan and his dog did, and when the time came to say goodbye, Marley went outside and lay quietly, indicating his life was at an end. John carried him to the vet, as I did my best friend. Both John and I suffered tears that swelled within, as never before. I never cried so hard, not even when my parents passed on. I don't know why. I still do. I did last night as the movie ended. I do now as I end this memoir.
 Recognized |
I could not think of a thing to write about yesterday morn, but today I did. I could have written more, but the inspiration that urged the beginning, the sorrow felt with the movie didn't need anything more than what is written. Understand?
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