Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man (12 page)

The Man says we are all sad because it reminds us that the same thing will happen to us one day—though he knows very well
that I do not jump up in the air all the time to catch a rubber ring. I thought about what he said on the way home and, when
I decided he was right, made up a little poem either in memory of Sandy or to help me feel better about dying one day.

Buster, are you grieving

Over Green Park trees unleaving?

It is the fate that we were born for.

Buster, it is yourself you mourn for.

I shall call the poem “Spring and Fall.” Sandy did both those things just before he died.

I have also been thinking about what Sandy’s owner said about now having four hours each day with nothing to do. Does that
mean Sandy had four hours of walks? If so, that is twice as much as I have. I think life is very unfair. So, no doubt, does
Sandy.

A man called Paul Simons has written a book about dogs during the war. One, an English Pointer called Judy, was a Royal Navy
mascot and, when her ship was sunk, she was captured by the Japanese. After the war was over Judy got a medal and barked on
the radio to celebrate Britain’s victory. In the prisoner-of-war camp, she kept a lookout for dangerous animals. The book
does not say what she had to eat during her years as a prisoner. Since that is the most important question, it cannot be a
very good book.

If I had been in the war, I would not have wanted to be shipwrecked and kept in a prison camp. I would have behaved like Rob
the “paradog.” Rob, a collie,
was parachuted behind enemy lines twenty times. He wore a parachute harness which looked just like the Precious Cargo safety
belt I wear in the motor car—only Precious Cargo looks better because it is bright red. When I travel to Derbyshire tomorrow,
I shall pretend I am floating down into enemy-occupied territory, not stuck in a traffic jam on the motorway. A dog who is
essentially heroic by nature, but rarely does anything more exciting than chase a squirrel up a tree, has to take refuge in
fantasy from time to time.

It was always agreed that we don’t do tricks. No sit-up-and-beg. No lie-down-and-play-dead. No come-and-shake-hands. It was
the Man who first talked about a dog’s dignity. He says that for me to hold out my paw when he tells me to “Say hello, Buster”
is no better than an elephant standing on a stool when its trainer cracks a whip. It makes no sense to me. But I am supposed
to take notice of what he says, so I now feel as strongly about the subject as he does. No tricks.

However, we are getting dangerously near to
breaking the rule, and I don’t know how to deal with the situation. On wet mornings, when we get back from the long morning
walk, I have to be dried. To be honest, I rather like it. The Man gets a big, rough towel and rubs me all over—always being
careful to stroke my fur in the right way. To be dried is to be the centre of attention and that is what I like most.

The paws are the difficult part. The Man takes the paws very seriously in Derbyshire, where there is a lot of mud and, as
he always says, I do not have the sense to keep out of it. The paws have to be rubbed clean, one by one. He is beginning to
expect me to pick them up. “Come on, Buster,” he says in his most ingratiating voice, “give me a paw.” I have only to twitch
in annoyance for him to shout, “Look! Look! Buster’s picking his paw up when I tell him to.”

How does picking up a front paw in order that it can be dried differ, trickwise, from shaking hands? The answer is: Not at
all. It is another example of his double standards. And I can’t help trying to do what he tells me. I get a biscuit every
time one of my paws leaves the ground.

Sophistication

In which Buster’s horizons are widened by the discovery of how other dogs live, and he comes to the conclusion that collaboration
is preferable to resistance.

The wolf inside is not quite dead. But earlier today, I wished he was, for he caused me very considerable embarrassment. I
was walking through Mayfair when She stopped at a shop called Farloe’s.

Although my memory is not good, it can be swiftly jogged by a sight, sound or smell. In Farloe’s window, there was a hedgehog—one
of those animals with spikes on the outside that made my nose bleed last year.

Naturally, I tried to get it and roll it over like the Man had suggested after last year’s unprovoked attack. So I pounced.
Fortunately, my head is very hard and I did not hurt myself on the glass. Although She was pulling very hard on the lead,
I would have pounced again, but a
total stranger spoke to me. He said, “Don’t be silly, Buster. It isn’t a real hedgehog. It’s a boot cleaner.”

I was pleased to be recognized by somebody I had never met before. But I felt very silly making such a mistake. I must try
to keep my instinct in check until I have found out what is really going on.

The scales fall from my eyes! Last night, when we went for our late-night walk, Barley the Irish wolfhound and Biggest Dog
in the World was asleep by the glass door in the side of his house. He was all curled up with a woolly toy. I think it was
a rabbit.

Being a romantic at heart, I have always imagined Barley hounding wolves in Ireland. But he sleeps with a woolly toy! I shall
attack him the next time that I see him in the street.

We have fires in Derbyshire, and the Man is very proud
of his fireplaces because they are so old. Sometimes he is very proud of things because they are so new. It is often very
difficult to follow his reasoning.

Fires have flames which come from coal and logs. The coal comes every Saturday on a truck. An English bull terrier puppy sits
on top of the coal. He is called Dennis, and the coalman says that he is pure white. When we see him sitting on the coal at
the back of the truck, he is pure black. Dennis is very well behaved. He never jumps off the truck, even when it is driving
along, and when it stops outside our house, he lies down on top of the sacks and waits for the coalman to make his delivery.
I give him a bark nevertheless, just in case he is tempted to trespass on my territory.

The Man asked how Dennis is washed clean at night. The answer was difficult for me to believe. The coalman said they go into
the shower together. Showers are rooms in which water comes out of the ceiling. I hate going out in the rain. Making it rain
in a room inside the house seems crazy to me. But the Man seems impressed by Dennis’s story. I fear the worst. Within a day
or two he will be dragging me into the shower.

The Man’s pyromania, which has come between us ever since he bought the house in Derbyshire, almost gave me a heart attack
last night—far worse than the normal bother we have when he lays a fire.

Usually the trouble comes about because I try to help. It always annoys him, even when I don’t get distracted by the logs.
Some of them have most interesting smells and a few are edible. He always gets bad-tempered when I take them out of the basket,
especially if I run into the ashes that he has scraped out from the grate. After I do that, I always get sent outside—even
though it was an accident, and running through the ashes doesn’t matter any more because they are spread all over the carpet.

Being put outside means I miss the best bit of making fires. When the coal and the sticks and the logs have all been piled
up, he sets them alight. I always wag my tail when I smell the smoke and he is always gratuitously offensive. “Stupid dog
would burn himself to death if we let him. Hasn’t the sense to know that fire burns.” He then puts a steel thing across the
front of the fireplace to stop me getting anywhere near, and I have nothing to do except to
sleep on the sofa or sit in the window and defend the property from attack by barking at whoever goes past. Last night, however,
his passion for fire nearly caused a major rift in our relationship.

I at least was ready for bed. The Man—who washes in a basin instead of licking his own hands and feet—takes much longer. So,
having had my last walk, I was waiting for lights-out, when I was suddenly sent into the kitchen and the door closed behind
me. “1 don’t want you tripping me up on the stairs,” the Man said. I haven’t tripped him up on the stairs for months, but
he is often unfair about such things.

As soon as I was let out, I went to bed in my upstairs basket right against the radiator. Strangely enough, I am allowed to
lie with my tail touching the radiator, but I am forbidden to go anywhere near the fire. Another example of the Man’s inconsistency.
But he has managed to convince me that fire is dangerous.

I remembered what he had taught me when, at about two o’clock in the morning, I smelt smoke coming from under his bedroom
door. Cometh the hour, cometh the dog. So I did my duty and barked a warning. But he did not wake. So I ran across the landing
and up the half-flight of stairs which leads to his
forbidden bedroom. My barking still did not wake him. He would make a terrible guard dog. So I scratched as hard as I could
on the door—even when bits of paint and splinters of wood got stuck between my claws.

At one minute I thought I heard a muffled shout. It sounded almost like “Go back to bed, Buster, and quieten down.” But, fearing
it was a cry for help, I barked and scratched on. Dogs have been awarded medals for less.

Exhausted from my efforts, I fell momentarily into a half-sleep. But as soon as I awoke I resumed the rescue attempt. Believe
me, becoming Dog of the Year was the last thing on my mind. All I wanted was for the Man—and my regular supply of sawdust
balls—to be safe. When he opened the bedroom door, I was so overjoyed to see him that, after one quick jump at his head—not
easy from halfway up a flight of stairs—I forgot all my training and ran past him into the bed room. A fire was burning in
the little grate.

For the first time in months, he let me sit on the bed. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not burning to death or suffocating.”
You see, he has begun to read my mind. “I brought it up in a bucket while you were locked in the kitchen. Thought it looked
nice.” Then he got very sentimental. “Were you looking after me? Did you think I’d
get burnt to death? What a good boy” It was late, I had endured a disturbed night, and he was rubbing behind my ears. Naturally
I went to sleep, proud and contented. Suddenly I felt a tug at my collar and I bounded off the bed, ready for another act
of daring self-sacrifice. The Man spoke to me in his most authoritative voice: “Out you go and back to bed. And no more barking.
Even if you don’t need a good night’s sleep, I do.”

Returning from Derbyshire today, I almost had a nasty accident—more proof, I fear, of the importance of putting my rumbustious
past behind me.

Throughout the journey, I was the very model of reticence and restraint. In short, I slept from start to finish. The Man did
not wake me up until we were alongside the St.. Pancras railway station platform. So I barely had time to stretch.

When the Man got off the train, I made the mistake of jumping out of the carriage at the same time, instead of waiting—as
I am supposed to do—and following obediently behind.

I lost my footing and my hind legs slipped off the platform. All that stopped me from falling under the (fortunately stationary)
train was the power of my front legs and the lead round my neck. The Man hauled me onto the platform, and said, “Buster, you’ll
give me a heart attack one day.”

It should have been my heart attack that he was worried about. Once again, I have been reminded of the advantages of denying
my instinct to leap first and look afterwards. Oh, how all occasions do inform against me!

I have just seen a picture of a dog in yesterday’s
Times.
It was called Zuki, and looked to me like a Great Dane. It was hard to be sure because he (or she) was leaning on his (or
her) elbows at the edge of a swimming bath and was wearing a bathing cap to keep the water out of his (or her) ears. Thank
God I don’t swim. If I did, the Man would certainly buy me a bathing cap and I would look as ridiculous as Zuki.

Zuki’s picture illustrated a whole article about keeping water out of dogs” ears. The vet who wrote it
says that wet ears never cause healthy dogs a problem. “A well-groomed dog runs with ears flapping like butterfly wings.”
I do no such thing and I pride myself on my grooming. Particularly my ears.

The Man spent all evening making me feel nervous. I am not sure what he expected to happen, but he drew the curtains and blinds
all over the house and made me sit with him on the sofa. He even brought my water bowl into the sitting room, something he
has never done before.

About every thirty seconds he repeated, “There is nothing to worry about, Buster. You’re all right with me.” The television
was on so loud that I could barely hear him, but, after he had said the same thing ten times, I could guess what he was saying.
When She told him he had promised to go to the doctor about being deaf, he got very bad-tempered and shouted, “You know very
well that it’s to stop Buster being frightened.”