I remember the day we picked Bubba. He was a black fur ball in the pet store. I knew he was it. We thought of naming him George, but when Bubba was said out loud, he barked in acceptance. My little bear came home that day, right around St. Patrick's Day. I was 9 years old.
He learned to swim, dive for rocks, and pull my brother and I on the sled. He breathed new life in to Ottis, and Bubba and Carly were fast friends. He hated riding in the car, even getting car sick - but I know he loved the park. I taught him to like the Hawaiian Bomb from Snoasis, sharing with him just a little bit from the bottom of the cup. Yes, I trained him well to like that. We went for walks and sat in the shade. He welcomed Robin, watched me go away to college, and hugged me each time I left again. Bubba gave the best dog hugs ever.
Bubba Bear was one my best friends. I miss him and I love him. I know he's happy in the shade of the Cottonwood by the garden, laying in the grass. His spirit hasn't left me. I just wish I could hug him one more time.
