Buff

Late last summer I listed my motorcycle and sidecar for sale. As much as we needed the cash, I secretly hoped nobody would be interested in my custom rig. As our finances improved I rationalized that I didn't need to sell this piece of myself that means so much to me. It's not just a motorcycle, its a chapter of my life. It was a step in my independence as a woman that had been huge for me. I let the ads for Nooner and Spank expire, feeling relieved they were here to stay awhile longer.

Now, months later, I am faced with the realization I need to release this part of my life for several reasons. I need to move on. Yesterday I re-listed them for sale on a couple of motorcycle and sidecar websites. Tonight I received a reply from someone local who is very interested and would like to come take a look.

I replied to the inquiry, then turned to Dean, "Someone wants to look at my bike."  I couldn't say anything more because suddenly a memory came flooding back to me.


When I was a little girl, about 8 years old, we had a Springer Spaniel named Jenny.

One day Jenny had a litter of puppies which were kept in a horse stall in our barn. Oh how I loved those puppies! Every day after school I would race to the barn to play with the puppies. There was one puppy who was my favorite. Her markings were slightly lighter than all the others. I adored her, and I knew she loved me. I carried her around with me all the time until my mom made me put her back. I named her Buff. My mom kept reminding me that eventually all the puppies would be sold. But Buff was mine. I loved her. She was mine.

Finally the day came when the puppies were old enough to leave the farm, so my parents ran an ad in the local paper. Every time a family arrived I would race ahead to the barn, let myself into the stall and sit quietly in the corner, holding Buff tightly in my lap. I avoided making eye contact with the visitors, making sure they couldn't get a look at my puppy.

This event was repeated several days in a row until eventually Buff was the only puppy left. Nobody came for her.

Buff followed me everywhere. In the mornings I would go to the bus stop and Buff would sit right next to me, waiting patiently with me until I got on the bus. She was such a good puppy! When I came home in the afternoon Buff would come racing to the bus stop as soon as she heard it coming. I could watch her running into the wind as fast as she could to get there before my feet touched the gravel driveway. She greeted me with puppy kisses, puppy breath and puppy wiggles. It was glorious! She was the first true companion I ever had and we were the best of friends.

One day, when Buff was about 14 weeks old, I got off the bus to an empty driveway. As the bus pulled away I called for her. "Buuuuuf!!! Buuuuf! C'mon girl!" Still, she didn't come. I was instantly worried, my internal alarms going off knowing something was wrong.

I ran past the house and straight to the barn, hoping maybe she was just locked in a stall and couldn't get to me. "Buff?" I called as I walked down the long isle of the barn. But the stall door was open, with no Buff inside.

I ran to the house, tears already streaming down my face in panic. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table and I knew before she said a word. "Where's Buff?" I cried?

"A new family came for her today. I told you we couldn't keep her Leah."

For weeks I cried about Buff. I felt betrayed. Oh how I missed Buff and I knew she was missing me.

Tomorrow someone is coming to look at my motorcycle. I guess I can't hide in the corner of the garage when I'm the one holding the key.