Allen Buffalo and Little Cree

The last will and testament of Allen Buffalo:

My name is Allen Buffalo, and I am a full-blooded Cree Native. They say I don’t have much time before I leave this world, so I want something special for my seven-year-old grandson, Little Cree.

My daughter is a bad mom. She took off to Edmonton after cleaning out the drug lord’s stash. So I knew they would be coming for her, and there was no way I would leave my grandson to those guys.

I am not afraid of pain or dying. I have stood in front of loaded guns pointed at me before. On the night when the drug lord and four truckloads of men with guns and spotlights came to my house, I stood big and tall in my picture window and waited. They pointed everything at me, even though I am a respected man among my people. I had Little Cree sitting on the floor behind two walls with my phone. I told him that if he heard anything to call the police.

Earlier that day, somebody tipped me off, and I checked myself out of the hospital. The nurse said, “Don’t go!” Then she left my room to get someone to help her stop me.

I sat up, pulled the needle out of my arm, and got dressed. By the time I walked down the hall, they were there; I just kept walking.

“I’m the man of my house,” I told them. “Little Cree will be getting off the church school bus in a couple of hours, and nobody is there to welcome him home.”

So I made it back in time, but standing in their blinding spotlights was killing my legs. Years before, I slipped on the ice and fell. I slid under the front of a car, tearing up my legs and feet. With my diabetes, the wounds only got worse. My 420 pounds make standing straight even harder.

But I started praying to the Creator until my mind went to a time when I was a strong young man standing on the side of the road. A cop came up the road and stopped his wagon. Then he turned his police dog loose on me. I still have the scars from that dog’s bite. But I broke the dog’s neck as he was biting me. I looked up, and the cop was pointing his gun at me.

Then I remembered the two hours I spent in the open bed of a police truck with my hands cuffed behind my back. They were also driving a convicted white man to the same prison, so they let him ride in the cab.

A winter storm hit that made me scoot closer to the cab. I crouched down to stay out of the wind, but it didn’t help much. That was worse than the dog’s bite.

A Tragedy

But the pain in my heart over the murder of my other grandson was the hardest thing. My bad daughter gave him up for drugs, and no way was I going to let Protective Services take him from us.

I borrowed a friend’s old car and drove off to claim him from the court. But on the way there, a wheel came off. So by the time I got to town, the judge had already given him to foster care. My grandson hadn’t been there long before he was found dead in that home. It was all over the news.

Little Cree

The pastor who rents the Log Church on Saturdays took Little Cree and me to the funeral in Edmonton. I finally saw my dead grandson, but I was too late.

At the graveside, the pastor gave me his drum, and the Creator helped me to sing a good song for my grandson. The pastor also talked about how the Creator cares about everything that happens to His creatures—He even comes to be with the little birds when they die. So I was comforted that He was with my grandson when he died, and I’ll let the Creator get justice for us.

The spotlights finally went out and the drug lord, with his thugs, drove off. I sank into the couch as Little Cree came around the corner.

“Grandson,” I said, “The Creator helped us, and He’s gonna help you after I’m gone.”

But now I’m back in the hospital and thinking about Little Cree. I want him to have a better life. I’m hoping the pastor and friendly people at that Log Church will always be there for him. Sometimes your family needs to be bigger than the immediate family you have. This is why I’m asking you not to forget Little Cree.

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David George writes from Arizona.

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