RIP Buck Infanger 1994-2008

It is hard to believe, but the reason that we got a dog in the first place is because my Dad (bless his heart) just isn't a gardener. He is great at the landscaping stuff, and his tomatoes and squash always seem to turn out well, but anything on a much larger scale than that just never seemed to work. I blame the fact that he was gone so much that he just couldn't fix a week's worth of damage brought on by the neglect of everyone else in a Saturday afternoon. Needless to say, only the hardiest fruits survived this type of nurturing.

I had been pestering my parents about a dog for years when this situation really reached a head; my Dad had moved from Chris Hansen Laboratories to Pfizer in the early 1990's (he'd have to tell you exactly when-- I was young enough to still be pretty oblivious) and was traveling for longer stretches to exotic locales like Ireland, Japan and Milwaukee. The garden was not doing well (again) and my mom's allergies seemed to have abated just a bit. It was during this time that my Dad made a trip to Hatt's Ranch, the pheasant club to which he has belonged for about a million years. They had recently learned that one of their best hunting dogs, Spud, could climb fences and, coincidentally, that another of their best dogs, Cubby, was expecting a litter of cubs around the first of the year in 1994. Things just kind of came together.

On the last day in February in 1994, my Dad and I drove down to Hatt's and picked up the puppy he had selected a couple of weeks before. He was solid brown with a tiny white diamond on his chest. We had been trying for weeks to come up with a suitable name for him, and while Dad and I were making the 3-hour drive home (during which we got to clean up the first of many accidents) we settled on the name Buck.

Dad's garden had become a terraced, fenced kennel in the back yard with a doghouse, drain, water dish, et cetera. With it being the end of February, it was still pretty cold outside. Dad and Mom agreed (contrary to the carefully laid plan) to let Buck stay inside the house because it was so cold, and when March proved to be even more wet and dreary than usual, Buck received an extended stay inside the house. He was such a cute little fuzzball that no one felt really bad about it. Within a week or so, we started to find my Dad laying back in the recliner watching M.A.S.H. with Buck curled up asleep on his chest, and it wasn't long after that before Buck decided that he would rather sleep by my Dad's side than in my room-- and just that fast it became apparent that Buck was Dad's dog. It was probably two years before Buck spent a single night inside that kennel.

That was almost fifteen years ago, and since that time, Buck has become an integrated part of our family. When he was a puppy he would get stuck behind the couch or tired out in the middle of the staircase and cry until someone would come and hold him. He chewed on dang near everything in the house (including my Reader's Digest leather-bound edition of The Sea Wolf), and it seemed to take him a while to figure out the house-training thing, but that's probably only because while Buck had become Dad's dog, I was still the one who had promised to clean up after him.

He soon became a gangly, long-legged, paddle-footed juvenile dog with so much energy that he would do laps of the house when he got excited; these usually started with a full-tilt rush down the stairs into the living room, a banked turn across the backs of the couch and love seat and ended with Buck losing control and plowing into a wall somewhere-- he would be a drooling, lolling, upside down ball of legs and ears that could and would make anyone laugh.

Buck was present for most of the adventures of my youth. He laid beside me for two weeks each time I had knee surgery and kept me company, except when I got so desperate for entertainment as to watch Gidget Goes Hawaiian-- he drew the line there and would go hide under the stairs until the movie was over. He hiked in the Uintas with Dad and I for a couple of years; he would crawl into the tent exhausted every night because he spent the days running up and down the trail-- first to the front of the group and then to the back, just to check on everyone and make sure that they were all still okay. He learned to swim (sort of) when we were jumping off of an old stump into a clear mountain lake; he was so worried that we were in trouble that he jumped in to save us and then realized that he was half Chocolate Lab (a breed which swims) and half Visla (a breed which sinks). Luckily his front half was Chocolate Lab.

Buck was there the first time that I went driving with my Learner's Permit. In fact, he moved abruptly from his perch on the back seat to one just on top of my face when I hit the brakes too hard when turning off of State Street in Orem. By the time my field of view had been cleared of "brown, furry mutt", it was filled with something called "parked moving truck." Both Mom and I had an interesting time explaining that one to Dad when we got home.

Buck came with us when our whole family was on a handcart trek in 1996. Dad was in charge of the physical facilities, and our old Bronco served as the First Aid station. Dad tied a bandanna around Buck's neck and he wandered the trail every day checking on everyone in the whole stake to see if they were alright. When the time came for us to cross a creek swollen by a sudden downpour, Buck crossed and re-crossed the stream dozens of times just to make sure that each handcart got across safely.

Buck loved to go fishing with Dad, and would do his best to follow a lure or a worm to a hole, always looking back at us like, "hey-- you lost this! You want me to bring it back?" He always seemed amazed and a little bit suspicious when a fish would follow our line back in. More than once Buck jumped into a prime piece of the stream right about the time Dad's line hit the water, and Dad would often pull a fish out of the water from literally right under Buck's feet. I never was able to pull that one off.

Buck was true to his heritage and had a great nose for Pheasants. I think that the only trip to Hatt's Ranch that he missed since we have had him was this last Friday, and Buck was just too sick to stand. I think that it would have broken his heart to have been able to hear and smell the birds but not go running after them. Every time we would get out of the car at Hatt's Ranch, we would be parked right next to the huge holding pens where the pheasants are bred and raised. Buck would always take one look at the hundreds of pheasants inside the chicken wire and give us a look like "you guys, you're not going to believe this, but I have totally found the mother lode!"

Buck went running almost every morning for a decade or so with my Mom, and he loved her very deeply. She was the only one who could get away with calling him "Bucky." He just ignored the rest of us when we said stuff like that.

Buck became an integral part of our family-- not just immediate, but extended, too. He had his own seat in the car when we went to see our Grandparents. He was actually allowed inside Grandma and Granddad Infanger's house for Christmas and other events (more often than not there was a "To Buck from Gram" present under the tree), and my Allred Grandparents, who are fastidious in the way they keep their house and yard even invited him in. Grandpa Allred would rub Buck's ears and say, "How you doin' you old Meat Hound?" Many of my younger cousins called my parents "Buck's Mom and Dad" until they could remember "Aunt Alison and Uncle Rex."

We always knew that Buck would not be around forever. I remember being a kid, shortly after we got Buck (I know because I was still at the Junior High) and wondering whether he would be around long enough for my kids to get to know him. Buck had ulcers on his neck about six years ago, and we were afraid that he would not be able to deal with the infection. Luckily, he pulled through a removal surgery and kept on going. He had a tumor on his chest show up about three years ago, and we knew that his time was getting short. Earlier this year he developed two tumors in his throat to go along with the one in his chest, not to mention the arthritis and the hip dysplasia he's been dealing with for years. In the last few months he has lost an enormous amount of weight after losing his appetite and most of his ability to walk. We took him fishing with us to Strawberry on Wednesday, and after we got home, both Dad and I realized that we hadn't seen him wag his tail in a very long time.

Yesterday morning he went to sleep for the last time. I just can't say how much I will miss him. He taught our family much about unconditional love, gratitude, laughter and warmth. He was, at times, the only friend I really had. He was there when I decided to marry my wife. He loved my Mom and my Dad with a fervor I admire and to which I aspire. He was a loyal, valiant and brave protector when he felt we were in danger, and was so gentle that he let an 18-month old check his tonsils without anyone fearing that he might lose patience. We owe much to him. Our family is richer in love and kindness because of him. Godspeed, my friend. I am blessed to have known and loved you and will miss your kind eyes, your soft touch and your gentle kiss. I look forward to seeing you again in the next life and hope that when we meet that I will have learned to love as purely and as simply as you did.