my dog has terminal cancer: in praise of Buddy Guillermosson.

In the wake of my separation, the thing that got me out of bed was my dog, my American Bully, my Buddy Guillermosson. Sure, I could lay in bed and not bother, but then where would the dog food come from? I would wake, I would see his 70 pounds of affirmative majesty just raring to go, and I would drag myself up, pet him, put on his collar, and he'd follow me to the kitchen and I'd let him out to do backyard business while I undraugr'd with a cup of coffee. Before I left for work I'd fill the treat ball, and before putting it down on the floor I'd say:

"Guard the house. Take no guff. Don't let anybody in. See you after work. I love you."

And I'd lock the door and go earn those sacks of dog food at my day job, hit that food warehouse after work, and carry that fuckton bag of kibble through the door to my grateful dog when I got home to the sound of his paws dancing on floor, his broader-than-human smile, and his soulful brown eyes that said:

 "Thank you. Thank you for doing that for me. I've kept our house safe. I took no guff. Nobody got in. And I love you, too."

And that dutiful exchange kept me alive. Buddy kept me alive during my separation, and through the incalculable loss of my father, and through my heartbreaks. It's been six years of being with him of his approximately decade-long life.

This week on Monday, Buddy threw up his dinner. Tuesday he hacked up some blood. Wednesday more blood occurred. Thursday I called the vet to get an appointment the next day, but no blood, so I almost cancelled, but I just wanted to be sure. And Friday the vet takes chest x-rays to discover a 2" tumor in my dog's right lung, and tells me that gives him a 6-8 month timeline, perhaps more, perhaps less if quality of life takes a sudden dive when his lungs fill with liquid to impair his breathing or he decides not to eat.

[The blood.]

I. Hate. Loss. And circumstantial/unwanted change. I hate it. I've never handled it well. After my last cat died, I told myself that I was done with pets until they solve the problem of death. But my future-then-wife moved three dogs into the house, among whom I found Buddy a far & away favourite. Buddy's white blaze on dark gray shorthaired coat, boxy head, wide-set bully frame, big paws, and alpha confidence was the clear winner. The bat-like over-cropped ears spoke of a past where he was beginning to be trained to dogfight, which means they start out by training them to kill small dogs so they get a taste for blood & death. Buddy escaped that fate, and this potentially $4,000 American Bully Classic was bought from the rescue shelter for $50. The anti-social behaviour of being game to fight had already been hardwired into him, which was his only flaw. He loved people & children, but when another dog got in his line of sight he'd suddenly rear up and become this embarrassingly savage monster that needed serious restraining. Some days I secretly loved that berserker flaw, other days I had to immediately leave wherever I was very red-in-the-face, depending.



[Buddy totally flips out on the guy trying to return my lost luggage!]

Buddy's brutal hólmgangr history was what it was, and there would be many nights where he would bark & growl & whine in his sleep, probably still remembering the martial past of his dark puppyhood years later. I would whisper to my sleeping dog, "Hey boy, it's okay. That's over. You're done with it, and you're with me now. You're safe with me." And many times the bad dream would stop at that comforting.

There was a bad moment where I found a precious pair of boots had been damaged by him, and I was mad at him for a good three days until I got the repaired shoes back from the leatherworker. I sat him down and talked to him about my feelings and respecting my things, and he looked at me knowingly, and I really felt better after I'd done that. My then-wife criticized me for bothering to do that, which really spoke more about her emotional shortcomings than it did about my need to process & make peace with the incident by monologuing with Buddy, and coming to accept that dogs will be dogs, no matter how intelligent they are. Though otherwise to her merit, she did once loudly & definitely declare, "Why would anyone have a baby, when they could have a puppy?!?", which was probably a Buddy-inspired comment.

[Buddy's a sidesitter.]

The running assignation was that since Buddy was the smartest of the pack that he was a doctor, or "dog-ter". (His two girlfriend dogs were then dubbed his nurse and medical coder, which still was all about him.)

[because glasses denote intelligence.]

Yet his smartness & exceptionality wasn't just our labelling him as a PhD: I discovered Buddy could speak. He was never a very verbal dog, maybe barking only when suspicious strangers crept up the driveway or dared to place a foot on the porch steps. Then one winter's night in the bedroom (for he was the one dog that got the privilege of first sleeping in the bedroom, then actually slowly but surely testing his boundaries and sympathetically wearing us down to sleep in the bed), I heard someone say, "Cold. Chilly. Chilly." That voice was not my sleeping then-wife's, it was the dog sleep-talking! There were two other instances of his speaking. The second time also in his sleep he said "Oh no!" The third, during a date, my then-girlfriend had just made a statement, where he suddenly interjected, "Sure." We both paused in disbelief, looked wide-eyed at each other, then looked at him. I asked Buddy to elaborate why he agreed, but he decided not to say anything else. It felt like a slip-up, like it was a quality he wished to keep hidden. Since the first time it happened I've been patiently waiting to hear him use his words again. There were moments while he napped or slept I'd notice his mouth move in a distinctly sleep-talking fashion for minutes, but inaudibly, and I'd come up, place my ear to his mouth, and whisper to him, "Speak, boy, speak. Tell me your words, tell me your dreamworld wonders. Speak."

To fill in these long silences between & after these six precious words, and in-line with my only-child background, we would speak for him. He would issues demands for treats or second dinners, or say judgments that as a then-married couple we would never speak directly to each other, but could be effectively negotiated by the dog. Beyond playful anthropomorphizing, it was almost a form of channeling the all-too evident persona of Buddy in the room, an outward building and sounding board of expression that added to the tapestry of domestic life.

[I would sometimes take dictation from him for correspondence.]

After the divorce the two girl dogs were no longer there, so to comfort now-co-bachelor Buddy, I began singing (badly) to him a lot more, taking lyrics and displacing them with his name & species to celebrate him, coming up with a veritable K-tel album of covers like:

‣ "Buddy Crocket: Dog of the Wild Frontier" [Disney film theme]

‣ "(I Am) Iron Dog" [Black Sabbath] 

‣ "My Dog Be Like (Ooh-Ahh)" [Grits from Tokyo Drift soundtrack]

‣ "Buddy: Guardian of Hausgard" [Amon Amarth]

‣ "Come, Come My Doggle" [Crazy Town's "Butterfly"]

‣ "Charming Buddy" [1800s "Billy Boy" song]

‣ "(I've Got) Big Paws" [AC/DC]

‣ "Buddy Planes" [M.I.A.]

‣ "Big Paws I Know You're The One" [Violent Femmes' "Add It Up"]

‣ "Rock Me Buddideus" [Falco]

... and many, many more.

And the lyrics would come out just as ludicrous as you'd imagine. Also there was an equal selection of nonsense songs that helped expand Buddy's already plentiful monikers to things like Bu-Fu, Booley-Fu, Lord Buddlington, Lil' Teef, Jarl Booley, Doggle-Fu, Hund Des Schloss, Bat-Ears, Drooly McFoo, Mr Gray Jeans, Sir Wagglebottoms, and many other kennings & verbal laurels.

In return, at night when alone, I would listen to the song of the heavy rise & fall of his barrel chested breathing, which would lull me to sleep, and let me know that I wasn't so alone.

And maybe Buddy was even secretly less alone. Sometimes I'd come home, the couch was in post-makeout disarray, his paws would smell like Cheetos, his breath like cigars, and it made me wonder if he'd been entertaining while I was out, because we were pretty sure he was also being studded before we got him, so dog got game.

["Hey baby girl, this sweater's made of 100% Sancho material. Pet me, but know you can't touch it just once. Double dog dare you."]

And if the ladies loved LL Cool J, they loved Buddy Guillermosson even more. Passing girls would just outright stop us on walks, begin to pet him, and ask me questions about his age, breed, background, and supercool tactical vest accessories & Norse patches. Sometimes I'd even get some collateral attention from them as well, but the dog was always the slightly more handsome of our Team Handsome (which is our official pack name). Above regular walks & parks & a few hikes, we went to craft breweries, bars, public events, private weddings, and even DJ booths & dancefloors to nightclub it just like his master. Buddy was always the hit no matter where we went, which spoke alot about him and how he holds himself.

[they loved him so much they even offered him a second Puppuccino, which they never do.]

And he even somehow won his Nana's affection (something which is tenuous even for me on some days); she never was a dog person, and she saves him scraps & buys him treats for when he visits.

[His Nana enjoys her grand-dog's company.]

While he already knew how to sit, Nana gave us a sheet of dog tricks, and we trained him at the late age of eight to roll over. He was always too smart for fetch though as he quickly saw through to the fact that I'd just throw the ball, and he'd have to do it all again for nothing.

[enjoying the sun during a road trip to Bisbee.]

I am going to lose Buddy's voice, that presence, that comfort, the company that has kept me alive during the unexpected and undeserved events of recent years. I often find myself mentally lost between actions, and I pause & ask the dog, "Hey Buddy, what was I doing?", and he responds, and I'm back on track. And I so, so, so fear the absence & silence & despair that will come when he's no longer there to answer.

[In the magic hallway at The McCoy during one of many awesome late night walks.]

Having Buddy has been a blessing in so many immeasurable ways. He's an emotional constant in a world of fluctuating judgments & evaluations, a factor of such shining worth by simply being no more or no less than what he is (well, the super-rare talking aside), a present-minded motivator, a metronome of wagging happiness to helicopter near-flight propeller-tail joy to ecstatic tap dancing, a needed example of taking rest, a fearless explorer, cataloguer & connoisseur of the olfactory, a contented & tireless gourmand, an accomplished city-wide mark-leaver, and good boy.

He is the goodest of boys, the bestest of dogs.

In these next 6-8 months of impending death I'm going to be there for him and am actually attempting to cut a day off my weekly work schedule. I'm going to double-dinner down until the salmon kibble's gone, then he's going to eat like a motherfucking jarl: cojack, yogurt, chicken, pork chops, hamburger, and steak, and maybe even at the table with me. I want to make his eyes bulge in amazement at meals, and give him twice the bully sticks, which are his favourite thing to gnaw on, since at this point the extra fat doesn't matter. I want to give him the most enjoyment and wonder before his health declines and he has to be put down. I know all of that won't be enough to thank him, and I know there will be nothing comparable to replace him when he is gone, but until that end comes we have the present and I'm going to make the most of it with him and for him.

This entry is his orðstírr, the reputation of his life skalded into word-glory for us to remember him by because he more than deserves all the praise I can set down. And I end this by saying what I always say to him when we lay down to sleep:

"I love you, Buddy Guillermosson.

Thank you for being my dog.

I love you so, I love you so,

never let you go, never let you go.

You're the bestest, bestest,

better than the restest,

better than the restest dogs,

better than the restest dogs

in the world.

In. The. World."

[In. The. World.]

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By day, Guillermo Maytorena IV is a happy bookstore fixture, but at night he's an Investigative Norse Mythologist! He's also willing to entertain the idea of being an adult film star, gynobot tester, or a tour guide in Scandinavia. Should you have any interest in his expertise or opportunities in those arenas, do contact him.

on the half-century.

If I have to make a birthday speech this year at the huge party my cousin's throwing me, it will be this:

In my early teens I never thought I'd get to 30, that society couldn't continue in the obviously stupid way it was set up, and I would instead die gloriously in a beautiful riot of blood & unshakable idealism before my mid-20s, because otherwise would be a compromise of my knowing better than everyone else, and having to settle for a world that was less than I deserved.

It was reading so many books & my writing that saved me from this. In words one can preserve ideas so they can spread, build whole universes from nothing, cast spells into the minds of others, and remake the fundamental way one thinks.

Yet when I crested 30, I actually expected to know everything, to fully understand how it all worked, to have my game down, and be precisely where I intended to be. And when that so wasn't the case, I was soooo angry because you then find out it's the exact opposite. You can know alot, but you will never ever be close to knowing it all, you can learn the pattern, but the game is larger than anyone conceives, and your position in the world is a construct that only comes from the centeredness & confidence from inside you. And even if you did succeed in all that, the values of those things isn't a constant, and you have those very same questions to contend with anyway.

This mental dissonance is a hard truth. Your paradigm shifts whether you want it to or not, and you let go assumptions about how the world works.

You then forgive people their humanity, or you accept their insurmountable imperfection, at least tolerating them, or find a way to insulate yourself from their unchanging foolishness. You open the doors and love your parents again as people, even though they will only always see you as children, which is just how it is. You realize the value of family, and discover why your friends, that adoptive family you create, is worth so much.

Behind my life, I am thankful for the orlog built by ancestors and family that I have lucked into. While family isn't picked, it's fated, this has so much to do with whom we become, the values we baseline from, how we first engage the world, our expectations of self, and the levels of trust we can extend to others from which the friends we keep stems from. The circle of people you keep reflects who you are, and you are my reflection.

With such partial enlightenment comes an unexpected vulnerability. I found in my 40s that I wept at things like dorky love songs or sappy films or others' personal stories that affected me in a deep way I'd never have let them before, and that disturbed and surprised me and still does. Sometimes that's painfully crushing and sometimes that's enriching in the fullness of its experience in the way a child first discovers chocolate, or thrilling as a first love.

For the few of you who really know me, the past few years have been internally so very difficult and trying. My unwanted divorce, the passage of my father's long decline and sad but merciful death, then a break-up that unexpectedly amplified those emotions. There are things in my life that I miss, and I miss them like a corpse misses its breath.

Happiness isn't objects, or wealth, creature comforts, or entertainments. It's the moments we acquire, the times we peak in our lives, and the deeds & words & art we make that may outlive that life. You become 6th grade valedictorian. Your headlines in one of the country's largest newspapers win recognition & cash awards. You lie in the sarcophagus of the great pyramid in Egypt while no one's looking. You write, handbookbind, and publish a limited edition novel. You date way, way, way more than your fair share of wicked smart, exceptionally beautiful, and joyously compatible women. You spot a chupacabra. You throw two parties that people still wistfully talk about decades later. You write a perfect sentence that transcends its own expression. You have a Viking themed wedding with a whole roasted pig on Midsummer. Sixty people show up at a nightclub just to hear you read two poems. You launch a Norse Mythology blog over eight years ago that you add to every week and is globally viewed everyday. You begin work on a map that could significantly change how people view the intersection of sacred place, history, legend, the monstrous, and the divine itself.

I want to thank you for giving me one of these moments, right here, right now, at this moment of turning half-a-century in my life, and recognizing my value in your life.

Thank you for just being here and much love.

[just a candid homelife shot.
Note that NorsePlay swag Map Of Midgard shirt!]

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By day, Guillermo Maytorena IV is a happy bookstore fixture, but at night he's an Investigative Norse Mythologist! He's also willing to entertain the idea of being an adult film star, gynobot tester, or a tour guide in Scandinavia. Should you have any interest in his expertise or opportunities in those arenas, do contact him.

greeting card holidays that remind you of death.

You're at that bullseye logo'd store and you're doing okay. Then you see the display with the slippers, one toecap stitched with "Best" and the other embroidered with "Dad".

And somewhere inside you just fucking fall apart, and you're in the space where he used to be, that abyss of loss that will never again be filled, and you miss him so very much, and it reminds you that his death will equinox the holiday this year.

Fuck you, Father's Day, you fucking greeting card throwaway fake commercial American timestamp. Fuck.

And here's what I have to say that's constructive: Don't buy your Dad another tie, or that shait card with some one-sentiment-fits-all canned inanity, or some clown-arsed coffee mug. Instead take some time to stop and contemplate about what that man means in your life, and how much of you actually is him. And whether that's bad or good, then take some follow up time to go either have it out, or fix what's bad, or go let him know how & exactly why you are thankful for him.

Your father is limited-time only, he is mortal, that door will close, and you will lose him. Go say those things now and not just on some bullshit annual confabulated demarcation of the calendar like Father's Day.

Do it as you need to, do it frequently if you can, put it in words from deep inside and spare nothing. Address him with the very humanity you've been given by him, his accidental act or considered trust in his own potential as a parent, and his investment in you as a person, as a vessel or vehicle that will manifest as a possible gift to the world that is by circumstance or design or wyrd is a part of him. That's the covalent mutual legacy and act of faith that is your bond. Go articulate that so he understands that you understand that, and acknowledge his role in your life because that recognition of worth is the priceless thing that Father's Day only emptily mimics and falls so achingly short of. And when he is gone, you will be thankful you did.

[My Dad was supposed to be thumbs-downing with me as a response to my Mom being in the hospital gurney (this is her POV as she's actually taking our picture) after falling in a parking lot at the end of a long hike and busting her forehead open on a huge rock.]

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By day, Guillermo Maytorena IV is a happy bookstore fixture, but at night he's an Investigative Norse Mythologist! He's also willing to entertain the idea of being an adult film star, gynobot tester, or a tour guide in Scandinavia. Should you have any interest in his expertise or opportunities in those arenas, do contact him.

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By day, Guillermo Maytorena IV is a happy bookstore fixture, but at night he's an Investigative Norse Mythologist! He's also willing to entertain the idea of being an adult film star, gynobot tester, or a tour guide in Scandinavia. Should you have any interest in his expertise or opportunities in those arenas, do contact him.

... and then my mom got covid.

"So my test came back positive. I've got covid."

"What?!?" I must have yelled into the phone at work. My mom's been uncharacteristically fatigued for a week, normally being an 85-year-old senior with the energy of a mid-50s woman, but her symptoms had included no respiratory difficulties nor cough, so I chalked it up to some less pressing flu/cold condition, but apparently Doctor Guillermo was wrong.

"Now, I left a message with my doctor, who's supposed to call me back, but no matter what he says, I'm not going to a hospital."

"Um, you might consider that he's a doctor, but still it's not like your organs are painfully ceasing function and your breathing's entirely okay. Which if that changes you should go to a hospital since that would be the kiss of death."

"No, I won't. If I die, I die."

"Well, I'm glad your affairs are in order. I'll miss you, even if you won't miss you." My sarcasm was angry at her self-disregard, and probably not the best approach, but when emotionally blindsided by potential loss it tends to be my reflexive default. I miss my father, and I'm not ready to lose the parent I have left.

"I won't go to a hospital."

"Mom, you're old enough to know that sometimes what you desire and what you require are by necessity different things. And if you actually haven't learned that, you know what? If I think you need to go to a hospital, I'll fucking tie you up, throw you in the car, and take you to a hospital, because I love you."

After this conversation of forcefully imperative parental love ended, I left work and drove to two different places to get myself tested and neither took walk-ins any longer, so I still don't know if my exposure during my four visits to her last week has given me covid, or maybe an irresponsible custie at my non-essential workplace that shouldn't be open anyhow gave it to me which then got to her, or she got it while going to one grocery store too many for a nickel's savings on produce. I don't know, I'll probably never know exactly, but my test's on Friday, and I'll likely get results on Monday.

In the meantime, my Mom's felt gradually better during the last 72 hours, so I suspect she'll be okay sooner than later, and I won't have to make good on my caretaking abduction threat. But I will if I have to.

[my parents being loving enough to take me to the emergency room in the middle of the night a few years ago. Yes, this is my POV from the ICU gurney.]

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him.