A tragic day

Up with the sunrise, I take advantage of the shower house while Buddy takes advantage of my sleeping bag in my absence. Once things are packed and we're just about to head out, Michael, who I'd met the previous evening, offers to make me some breakfast. So both us sojourners enter Mike's camper, his pudgy Boston Terrier gracefully allows Bud to go through its basket of play toys. Bud picks out some rawhide to chew on, and Michael serves me a tasty skillet. We part ways after getting to know each other a bit better, and I head to the gas station to fill my coffee cup before we go. Unknown to me, Glo had left instructions for Sunday's cashier, Linda, not to accept my money. Wow! If there's one thing I hope this journal emphasizes it's this: America is still full of good people, those who believe in hospitality and helping each other when times get tough.

This belief has been put to the test in more ways than one. We have a great day of puffy white clouds and blue sky. I stop from time to time to take photos of the amazing landscape and to let Buddy enjoy Glo's beef jerky treats. We've just gone passed Moccasin and are starting to think about places to camp. At one point Bud suggests some tall grass near some horses, but I say, 'That's no good. It's much too close to the road.'

Then, around 1530 one of my worst fears for this hike was realized. I'm in an upbeat mood, singing Elvis' greatest hits and Buddy's off the shoulder exploring in his usual way. We come to an overpass with train tracks beneath Buddy goes below as he has done before, but when we get to the other side, Bud's come out on the right instead of on my left (We walk facing traffic). The horror unfolds almost in slow motion. I see approaching vehicles in both lanes and shout NO! But it's too late. Buddy's already coming toward me. There's a yelp, and he's down. I run out and pick him up, bringing him back to the left shoulder. He can't stand and he's whining. The lady who had hit him says she's got to go, she's left some water running. So I put my dog on our cart and push as fast as I can, praying the whole time: 'Jesus please heal Bud. Don't let him die.' I get to a bar in the town of Hobson and I'm thinking, 'Ironic, Hobson's choice. I've got one option: get Bud to a vet. How am I going to get him to a vet and what am I going to do? I don't have a car. I'm hundreds of miles from anyone I know.

But Mary, the lady at the bar, starts making enquiries immediately. She finds a vet who's available on Sundays. Then, a guy named Levi who was there when I came in says he'll give us a ride 25 miles into Lewistown, to a Dr Greg Carlson. We all get in his car and make it to the place. In an act of further generosity Levi won't accept any money. Your act of kindness won't soon be forgotten my friend.

Dr Carlson takes ex-rays and finds that Buddy has had a serious break at his left knee joint. The growth plate is completely detached from the femur so that mending it would be quite difficult. The recommendation is amputation. I feel slightly ill when the words first come out: 'I would amputate it.' But I'm glad Buddy is alive and apparently in no immediate danger. Also, the doctor's prognosis is encouraging. He says that this procedure has had positive results numerous times, and he feels that Bud will go on to enjoy a high quality of life even with three legs. When I suggest that he won't be able to heard cattle like he'd done yesterday, Greg suggests that he'll do it just fine. He then generously offers me a lift to a nearby motel so that I can update those of you following along.

So, I'm left here now to consider the possibilities and to ask, 'What's your plan in all of this God?'

Ideas? Suggestions?

Buddy's spending the night at the veterinarian's. He's on pain meds, and I'm hopeful that he'll be alright until I go to see him in the morning.