Farewell to The Warden: A Tribute to Buddy
- DogGone Nomads
- Apr 1
- 3 min read
Saved June 21st, 2019 – End of Patrol, March 6th, 2025
I've been putting this off. Maybe because writing it down makes it more real. But I think it's finally time to share the story of a dog who changed my life.
His name was Buddy—but if you knew us, you probably knew him as The Warden. He was the last of my six rescues, and he left behind a mark bigger than his little body could ever show.
When I got back from my military reunion on March 2nd, I could tell something was wrong. Buddy had already been dealing with heart and breathing issues, but this time… it was different. He was really struggling. I gave him his meds and tried to stay hopeful. But by the next day, I knew I couldn’t wait it out. I loaded him up and drove to the emergency vet in Memphis.
He stayed there for four days, hooked up to oxygen the entire time. They ran every test imaginable. The bill showed four different vets had looked him over, trying to figure out what was going on—but no one could give me answers. His breathing was so bad, they couldn’t even sedate him for a biopsy. It was all just unknown.
On March 6th, I had to make the hardest decision I’ve ever made. I held Buddy in my arms while a vet I didn’t even know gave him the injection that stopped his heart. I hated myself for doing it—but I couldn’t let him suffer. It felt like my soul cracked wide open.
I’ve cried every day since.
The truth is, Buddy wasn’t just another rescue dog. He was my road dog, my shadow, my co-pilot. My son in every way that mattered. I still remember the day I picked him up—June 21st, 2019—thinking I was just transporting a dog for a rescue. He rode shotgun. Calm. Cool. Stealing my heart one mile at a time. By the end of that trip, I knew I couldn’t let him go. I told the woman who organized the transport (thank you, Kim!) that I’d be back. And I was. Best decision I ever made.
He may not have been the biggest, but Buddy The Warden had presence. He had this little skip in his walk, a tail wag that could lift your spirits, and a fart so loud it could scare even him. He’d curl up in my lap like he owned it—and bark at the other dogs like he was running a prison. Hence the nickname: The Warden.
When we hit the road full-time, I made a promise to all of my dogs - they'd live a life of adventure. Buddy got one. He sniffed pine trees in Arizona, dug up deer hooves in Colorado, watched cows roll past our rig in the Badlands, and ran wild through the Black Hills of South Dakota and Wyoming. He didn’t just exist on the road. He thrived.
When the vet told me he had congestive heart failure, everything shifted. Not just because of the meds or the vet visits—but because I knew time was running out. So instead of slowing down, we sped up. More trails, more lakes, more nights under the stars. More chances for him to just be a dog. My dog.
And even toward the end—when his breathing was hard, when the meds piled up—he still had that spark. That look that said, "I’m good, as long as I’m with you."
I don’t know if there’s a heaven for dogs, but I really hope so. Like Will Rogers once said, “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they went.” If there is such a place, I know Buddy’s up there now—patrolling the perimeter, chasing squirrels, and letting out the occasional bark or accidental fart that scares him silly.
Buddy, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for the road trips, the love, the laughs, and for showing me what loyalty really looks like. Me and the rest of the pack will carry your memory with us—every mile, every sunrise, every trail.
Rest easy, my little Warden. You did good, boy.
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