PART 5: THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
Jackson, Mississippi – October 14, 2023
Sam Anderson turned eleven on a Saturday.
He didn’t want a big party, but his mom insisted on inviting a few neighbors and classmates. There’d be pizza, a backyard game of kickball, and a cookie cake with his name in blue frosting.
But the only thing Sam truly wanted was for Buddy — or Shadow, depending on the day — to wear his green collar.
“Just for a little while?” Sam asked that morning, holding it out gently.
The dog looked at the collar. Then at Sam. Then slowly dipped his head and let the boy fasten it around his neck.
It fit perfectly.
Sam grinned. “You look official now.”
The guests arrived around two. Kids ran wild across the lawn. Parents clustered near the lemonade table, exchanging polite weather talk and political side-eyes.
Buddy kept close to the edge of the yard, sitting near the shed like a quiet sentry. He didn’t bark. Didn’t chase. Just watched.
Rosie waddled over every now and then to drop a cracker in front of him like a gift. He’d eat it gently and place his paw near her foot, a quiet thank-you.
Everything was going fine.
Until the noise started.
At 3:41 PM, someone lit a handful of party poppers.
The plastic bang was sharp — like a firecracker. Then came more.
Pop. Pop-pop. POP.
And that was when it happened.
Buddy bolted.
He shot across the lawn like he was being chased, eyes wild, tail tucked. He ran past the swing set, past the grill, and straight through the open gate into the street.
“BUDDY!” Sam shouted.
But the dog didn’t stop.
Not until he reached the ditch across the road, where he dropped to his belly, panting, shaking, ears pinned flat against his skull.
Rick got there first, kneeling beside him, palms out.
Buddy didn’t growl, but he wouldn’t move either.
It took nearly ten minutes to coax him back. His legs were stiff. His body low. His mind somewhere else.
When they finally returned to the yard, the party had quieted. The cake was untouched.
Sam didn’t want to open his presents.
He just wanted to sit next to Buddy on the back steps and try to understand.
Later that night, after the guests were gone and Rosie was asleep, Sam and his parents sat around the kitchen table with mugs of cocoa.
“No more poppers,” Rick said quietly. “Ever.”
Carolyn nodded. “I had no idea it would scare him like that.”
Sam fiddled with the corner of a napkin. “It was like he went somewhere. Like he wasn’t here at all.”
Carolyn sighed. “Trauma leaves a map. Even in animals.”
Sam looked up. “You think he saw something… bad?”
Rick hesitated. “Maybe heard something, too.”
They didn’t say it, but the thought hung between them:
Maybe that’s why he ran.
Maybe that’s what happened back in April.
Maybe that’s how he got lost.
Sam couldn’t sleep.
He sat beside Buddy, who had curled up tightly in the hallway near the coat closet. His breathing was shallow, even in sleep. One paw twitched.
Sam placed the green collar gently on the floor beside him.
“You don’t have to wear it again,” he whispered. “You’re still ours. With or without it.”
Buddy didn’t move. But the tail gave one slow tap against the hardwood.
The next morning, Sam asked his mom for paper, glue, and markers.
He sat at the table for over an hour, carefully writing each line in thick block letters.
When he finished, he slipped outside and posted the sign beside the front gate.
It read:
PLEASE: NO LOUD POPPERS OR FIREWORKS.
PTSD DOG ON PROPERTY.
THANK YOU.
Rick read it later and nodded. “That’s a good sign.”
“It’s true,” Sam said. “He saves people. Now we help him.”
Carolyn kissed the top of his head. “That’s how family works.”
Buddy’s routine slowly returned.
He resumed his nighttime rounds — sniffing doorways, checking Rosie’s crib, curling near Sam’s bed until the boy’s breathing slowed into sleep.
But something had changed.
He was more cautious. More still.
The shadows lingered longer behind his eyes.
And Sam? Sam started reading about therapy dogs. About triggers. About how loud noises could unlock memories a dog couldn’t explain but couldn’t forget.
He read until he found something that stuck with him:
“Dogs don’t remember dates. They remember fear.”
That line hit deep.
It made him want to protect Buddy the same way Buddy had protected Rosie.
One afternoon, after school, Sam brought home a worn book from the library: Dogs With Jobs.
He sat beside Buddy in the yard, reading aloud from a chapter about search and rescue canines.
“…and these dogs are trained to remain calm under pressure, to sniff out danger, and to detect subtle signs of panic or illness. Their loyalty is unmatched. Their courage, quiet but endless.”
He paused.
Buddy looked at him.
“You were one of them,” Sam said softly. “Weren’t you?”
The dog blinked slowly. As if to say: I still am.
That weekend, Sam asked Rick if they could build something together.
“A box,” he said. “A memory box. For Buddy.”
Rick raised an eyebrow. “What kind of memory?”
“Not sad ones. Just… his things. The collar. The first tennis ball he actually chewed. That blanket Rosie gave him.”
Rick nodded. “Let’s do it.”
They spent Saturday sanding old pinewood. Sam painted a single word on the lid:
SHADOWBUDDY
It wasn’t his name.
It wasn’t not his name.
It was both halves of his story — past and present — finally held in one place.
That night, when Sam placed the box in the hallway beside the shoe rack, Buddy sniffed it once.
Then he lay down next to it.
And stayed there until morning.