One of my favorite stories happened when I was in high school, sitting next to my best friend, Lori. I’m not sure what we were supposed to be doing, but we were sleepy and bored.

“Want to come over to my house for dinner tonight?” I asked Lori.

“Sure. Anything interesting going on?” she asked.

Well, no. Why would there be something interesting going on? I thought back to when I left the house that morning and remembered seeing my neighbor taking his dog, Buddy, out for a constitutional. Buddy had just returned from surgery and was moving slowly. Lori knew my neighbors and their dog.

“They got Buddy fixed yesterday,” I told her, because there was nothing else to say.

Lori put down her pencil.

“You’re kidding.”

“Uh, no. They did. They got Buddy fixed.”

“Oh my gosh! You mean like, fixed, fixed? So he can’t be a father?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my gosh! That’s crazy!”

Didn’t seem crazy to me, but she was interested, so I told her more.

“He seems to be doing OK. I saw him this morning. They put one of those cones on his head to keep him from, you know, biting and licking himself.”

“You’re kidding!” Lori was now sitting straight up in her chair. From the looks of her, this was the most insane, upsetting thing she’d ever heard.

“Nope, not kidding. It’s not uncommon. I think he’s at the right age when people do it, if they’re going to get it done.”

“He actually has a cone on his head?”

“One of those lampshade things, yeah. Poor guy.”

“Is it permanent?”

I laughed. “Yes, pretty sure it’s permanent. Well, the getting fixed part. Not the cone.”

Lori took a moment to take it all in. I was perplexed by her interest. Maybe she had a deep passion for animal rights that I’d never noticed.

I felt a little guilty. Maybe I should have shown more compassion and concern for poor Buddy the dog. I started to think about other dogs in the neighborhood. Were there any other dramatic stories among them? I was busy racking my brain so I could pass any more news on to Lori, when she asked, “Did Buddy volunteer to be fixed?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Are you serious?” I finally asked.

“Yes! Did he volunteer, or did they make him?”

“How could he have volunteered?” I asked.

She put her head in her hands.

“Um, I think he’s going to be OK,” I told her. “He probably doesn’t even realize what’s happened yet.”

“I don’t think they should have done it,” Lori said. “What if they change their minds in the future? That’s a huge decision to make with someone so young.”

I didn’t think so. I knew that Buddy himself was born when his mother, a stray, wandered into our neighbors’ yard and had nine puppies. They’d found homes for all the puppies, but kept Buddy. I thought it was a reasonable thing to do. I hesitated to say so, considering Lori’s feelings on the subject.

“Who made him do it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Who made Buddy get fixed? Was it your aunt and uncle?”

In my head, the sun finally came out from behind the clouds. I suddenly remembered that Lori not only knew my neighbors and their dog Buddy, she knew my cousin, and my cousin’s boyfriend, also named Buddy.

— Check out more from Denise Roundy at thetreesandi.blogspot.com. Contact her at dirkroundy@yahoo.com.