Bubba

My brother-in-law's Boston Terrier died last month.

I met him in 2016. And to be honest, he wasn't initially my favorite. He was loud, hyperactive, and insistent with his demands for endless rounds of fetch.

Back then, my BIL also had another dog, a large older girl who was losing control of her limbs.

The two of them were a cocktail of emotions. You'd be watching Chaos try to get where she was going, and meanwhile Bubba'd be whimpering and running around. One dog you had to watch because she needed care, the other, because he didn't seem to care.

But Bubba was always there.

He was there when Chaos died. There when my sister and BIL got married. There when their two boys were born. When they repeatedly moved house. When things were sunny and when they were difficult. He was there.

As my BIL (and my sister) became more successful and established, Bubbs moved from a tiny backyard, through a series of bigger homesteads, and by the time I last saw him in August, he was lord of acres of forest, grass and even a beach on a lake, a territory he would patrol frequently.

My BIL once told me that Bubba was the runt of his litter, and there was something vaguely ridiculous about him. We did occasionally laugh at him and the funny shit he would do.

And you could see him processing his shame, maybe even hiding for a little while, but then he'd be back, carrying a quiet dignity that most dogs never muster.

I have lots of joyful memories of this dog, but the most enduring was how he'd stand silently within the circle while people talked many feet above him. He was just always part of the pack. Not in a needy way either. He knew he belonged, and I envied that about him.

I never once saw him act afraid, with people or other dogs. Can't remember once seeing him bent out of shape. Except when a car would pull into the drive and he'd bark like he was losing his shit.

Bubbles loved playing fetch. As a terrier, he'd chase down whatever object you threw. If he could get it between his teeth, he'd shake the fuck out of it. If he couldn't, he'd find a way to get it back to you.

I spent a lot of time playing soccer with him. He would direct the ball back to you with his body, making a little grunt as he redirected the ball back to you, so he could try and steal it from you again.

A few years ago, I spent several months at their place in the country north of Seattle, and Bubba and I played every day. We got pretty tight. He was stoked to see me when I went west back in August. Always feels great when an animal (or a person) remembers your previous bond.

You meet so many little dogs who are insecure and afraid. That wasn't Bubba. He had a comfort with himself and the world that I found a little surprising. I suspect a lot of the reason behind that goes to my BIL, who does an outstanding job of making his people feel like they're safe and protected and part of the team.

But he was also just an incredible little dog who knew what he was about. He knew what he loved, what he was good at, and in recent years I've tried to draw from his example to just be where I'm at.

Sometimes things go surprisingly well. Sometimes they don't. You just gotta roll with it, and keep doing your thing. Bubba modeled that for me, and he will always be one of the most self-comfortable creatures I've met.

We all loved him a lot.

And miss him too.

RIP homie.

Dan