A Brother In Bubba

Early mornings on school days were the worst. So my mom developed a technique to help wake me up. She had tried throwing ice cubes in my bed. She had tried karate chopping my back. She had tried buying me an alarm. Nothing worked. And then she got Bubba, to walk on me until I woke up. My mom would sprinkle cheerios on top of me, and our Chihuahua-mix who was only 14 pounds (thank goodness), would walk all over my body.  Sometimes he was joined by his much heavier dog sisters, Buffy and Bianca.

Waking up for school is hard for many teenagers, but it was a little different for me because I had severe depression and anxiety. It wasn’t difficult to wake up because I was tired or because I wasn't a morning person. It was difficult to wake up because on most days sleeping was preferable to going outside and being part of the world. That’s why my mom tried every trick in the book to wake me up. Each day I just attended school was a win. A win toward progress, and hopefully a happier life, eventually. Using Cheerios as payment, she hired Bubba to make it harder for me to resist putting myself out there.

Waking me up for school was a gift Bubba gave me. With his death last month at age 18 (yes, he was really old), it is now one of the memories Bubba left me. The joy pets bring is often incidental. Bubba thought he was getting Cheerios. He was helping me fight depression.

Bubba was a Jack Russell Chihuahua with a unique name. But the name fit because Bubba was slightly round, absolutely Southern and completely lazy. Plus, in southern slang, Bubba means brother. When I first moved to Oregon for college, I would internally wince when I told people I was from Alabama and I had a dog named Bubba. I worried what they might think of me. Later in life, when I became prouder of myself and my roots, Bubba became my bellwether for who was going to try to make me feel shame for where I was from or who they thought I might be. I don’t feel bad anymore. I’m from Alabama, and I had a dog named Bubba. I wouldn't have named him anything else.

Bubba was a highly flawed dog, which probably means that me and my family were highly flawed owners. Bubba was never housetrained. He continued peeing inside until he died. Bubba could get grumpy easily, and would growl if you tried to move him off the couch. And as Bubba got older, he would bark at you in the kitchen when you were making food, as if you were obligated to let him sample all human food. He also had cataracts, was deaf and had tumors packing his body. So give him a damn break.

Still, Bubba was undeniably cute — a fact I suspect he knew, and used to his advantage as much as possible. He was a mixture of Jack Russell and Chihuahua. His ears poked up like a Chihuahua, but if you pushed them down he looked like a Jack Russell. I imagine this was an identity crisis for him.

Bubba was the final dog in the first generation of Alabama Stayner dogs. He was preceded by Buffy and Bianca, respectively. I chose Buffy from the Humane Society. She was a mutt, mostly Chow and Labrador. She bit at least five to six people, and barked anytime something moved outside. She ran away constantly. Yet, we loved her. My favorite pastime was chasing Buffy around the neighborhood with friends. 

We got our second dog, Bianca, an Australian Shepherd, because we thought Buffy could use a friend. They hated each other (sorry, Buffy). Bianca was insane, a bundle of energy — imagine a dog on speed. She was a herding dog by heart, who ended up contained to our limited backyard (sorry, Bianca). Bubba loved them both. He was neutral, and dealt with their craziness (sorry, Bubba). We got Bubba because my dad saw him at a pet store, and decided he had to have him, even though we weren’t supposed to get three dogs. One dog is fine. Two dogs is fun — it’s like they’re siblings. Three dogs is madness — it’s like you’re living with a second family. Sometimes I would walk in the living room, and see all three dogs occupying a piece of furniture: Bubba on our green wingback chair. Buffy on our brown sofa. Bianca on our zebra-striped chaise. When I entered, they would look up at me, unfazed. I half expected them to have the TV on, and a pile of beer bottles stacking up. I wonder if they ever wanted to ask me to bring them snacks. 

Buffy was the alpha for many years, but that changed as she got older, and it was hard to watch. As Buffy weakened, Bianca overtook her as the strongest. We always thought Buffy would die first, but one morning Bianca woke up, and couldn’t control her bowels. And then she collapsed and couldn’t walk. My parents rushed her to the vet, where they were told Bianca had a rapidly growing tumor, and that she needed to be put down. Bianca probably deserved a bigger yard, and some kind of job herding cattle. But she was so anxious that we always worried she’d never recover if we gave her to another family. She still lived a great life. There were moments when she was calm. Sometimes she’d lay under the hydrangea bushes in our backyard to enjoy shade. And sometimes when she was alone, with no other dogs around, she’d just pass out on the floor. As hectic as she was, Bianca only wanted peace.

Buffy died four months after Bianca. She died from oldness. I’ve always enjoyed the fact that Buffy outlasted Bianca. Buffy’s final savvy, veteran move was just living longer than Bianca. She got the last laugh. I’m positive she’d rub that in Bianca’s face if she could.       

We were told by a veterinarian that Bubba was going to die in 24 to 48 hours, three different times. One of those times came when Bubba escaped from my mom’s studio and got into the garbage of a barbecue restaurant nearby. The doctors thought he had a tumor. My mom likes to joke it was just a chunk of spoiled pulled pork. When your dog survives three near death experiences and reaches 18-years-old, the fact that they are still alive becomes an inside joke. I used to begin phone calls to my parents by sarcastically asking them if Bubba was still alive. Bubba was there, always. On his first day in our house, Bubba fell asleep next to a subwoofer while explosions went off in a James Bond movie. We were told Bubba was raised on a farm with 18 other dogs. Maybe loud sounds weren’t that annoying to him. Bubba was a calm dog. He slept with me some in high school, and then we both got sick of each other. His final years were rough. He lost weight, and he was a tiny dog to begin with. He lost his amazing jumping ability, so we had to pick him up. He lost his hearing. Then his eyesight worsened. He became senile. He’d bark if everyone left the room. His breathing worsened, too. And he’d have coughing fits. He stopped eating dog food for the most part, and preferred chicken or eggs. Although, I wonder if that was him just tricking us. Even once his health faded, he still made us laugh. Bubba just looked funny. I used to make voices for him. I’d also take pictures of him next to beer bottles and text friends that he was drunk, because he was my dog, and I could do that. Even if much of it was incidental, Bubba gave me a lot. Bubba was funny. Bubba was comfort. Bubba was love. One of the tiniest beings in my life, Bubba was sometimes the only thing that could lift me up: eating Cheerios off my back, helping me face another day. Bubba was there, always. Until he wasn’t. Bubba was my brother.    

Wyatt is a graduate student at the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at CUNY, and an editor at Prison Journalism Project. Contact Wyatt at wlstayner@gmail.com. ©