📕 Part 9 – Bud’s Quiet Goodbye
March 9th, 2023 – Danner Hollow, Missouri
Bud stopped finishing his meals.
It wasn’t sudden. Just… less every day. A few bites left in the bowl. Then half. Then most.
At first, Martha thought he might be sulking — dogs grieve, too, she knew that now. Maybe he missed Gramp. Maybe the spring wind made his bones ache.
But when he didn’t get up one morning — didn’t even lift his head when Skip barked at the mail truck — she knew.
It was time again.
He didn’t look sick.
Just slow. Tired in the way old men got tired — not of the day, but of the living.
He still followed her with his eyes. Still rested his chin on her foot when she sat on the porch. Still let Skip curl up beside him like he always had.
But something had shifted.
And it wasn’t going back.
She called Dr. Hollis again.
He didn’t say much this time. Just gave her the same quiet tone he’d used before. The kind people use when they know you already know.
“I can come by tomorrow,” he offered. “Or… I can wait, if you’re not ready.”
Martha looked at Bud, curled in a sunbeam by the storeroom window.
“No,” she said softly. “He’s ready.”
That night, she made one last meal the way he liked it — boiled chicken, soft rice, no seasoning.
Bud ate a few bites. Then rested his head back down.
She sat beside him and began brushing his ears with her fingers — slow, soft, rhythmic. Like a habit passed down from love to love.
Skip lay across her lap, nose tucked under her hand.
Outside, the wind rustled what was left of winter. The porch light flickered once, then held.
The vet came at noon, just like before.
Bud didn’t lift his head, but his tail wagged twice when he heard the door creak.
She carried him in her arms to the back room — same place Gramp had slept. The same quilt. Same corner. The one with just enough light to make it feel warm.
Dr. Hollis knelt.
Martha placed a hand on Bud’s chest. Felt the thump of his heart — not frantic. Not weak.
Just… quiet.
She leaned close and whispered, “You stayed longer than I ever expected. And kinder than I deserved.”
Bud’s breath was shallow, but his eyes never left hers.
She nodded once to the vet.
And when it was over, she didn’t move.
Skip didn’t bark.
He just crawled over beside Bud’s still body and rested there — one paw across Bud’s back like a brother trying to hold time in place.
Martha let him stay.
For as long as he wanted.
Later that evening, she buried Bud beside Gramp, under the same oak.
It was easier this time. Not because it hurt less — but because she understood something now.
Love wasn’t a favor. It wasn’t borrowed. It wasn’t a weakness.
It was the price of not walking through the world alone.
And for that, Bud had paid his dues in full.
That night, she sat in the doorway long after dark.
Skip at her side. His head on her knee.
Two bowls instead of three. One collar hanging on the hook. Two graves behind the shop.
And the last name she said aloud before going in?
Was his.
“Good boy, Bud.”