Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man (4 page)

The house which is being renovated has a lot of stairs and two gardens with steps in them. Wherever the Man may be, I can
nearly always be higher than he is—that stops him thinking he is leader of the pack. At one end of the garden there is a big
hedge. A Labrador puppy lives in a kennel in the garden on the other side. I tried to rescue it as soon as I was let out of
the back door, but got stuck between the hedge and the chicken wire, which nobody told me was there. Whilst I waited for the
Man to let me out, I howled a lot. He said that if I went on causing trouble I’d have to live in a kennel in the garden. I
don’t believe him.

I enjoyed the drive home. Driving—as long as you know where you are going—is great fun, especially the bit when you wake up,
stand on the backseat, put your paws on the driver’s shoulder and lick his ear. I think I liked the standing-up part more
than the Man did.

Troubled Times

In which Buster is ill, and, after his miraculous recovery, has two unfortunate meetings, the first with a royal goose and
the second with a London policeman.

We have been to Paws U Like, the pet shop or (as it now calls itself) the Westminster Animal Companions” Centre.

It was full of things to eat—tins of meat (all “as advertised on television” and some of them “the food of champions”), sacks
full of sawdust balls I am given every morning, biscuits in dozens of different shapes and with hundreds of different tastes,
white mice, ger-bils, budgerigars and hamsters. We bought nothing of any value. All we brought home was a cardboard box on
which was printed (in big red letters)
PRECIOUS
CARGO.
Underneath it said, “When you travel, make sure your pet is as safe as you are.”

Inside the box there was what the Man called “Buster’s braces”—scarlet webbing and buckles which he says I must wear every
time I go in the car. He tried to put it on me as soon as we got home. I did all I could to help by rolling about on the floor
and chewing the loose ends of the webbing, but he still could not work out which loops my legs went into and how to fasten
the buckle at the back of my neck. He almost strangled me twice. Getting the harness on will add twenty minutes to every journey.
With any luck he will get bored and throw it away in a week or two.

While I was choking to death, with the webbing pressing against my windpipe, the Man told me that it was all being done for
my own good. He said that, being just a dog, I wouldn’t see a crash coming so, when it happened, I wouldn’t have braced myself
and I would fly about inside the car like a giant, furry squash ball. What I can’t understand is why, if he can see the crash
coming, we have the crash.

Once Precious Cargo is buckled on, it is comfortable enough—and rather dashing in its way. I look as if I am about to parachute
into enemy territory for
purposes too secret to describe. But when it is used to make me as safe as he is, the result is a disaster. For the buckle
between my shoulder blades is attached to the backseat safety belt and, although I can sit or lie down, prancing about is
impossible. I am beginning to learn about caution and restraint. But without the freedom to prance, driving will lose its
joy.

I have been very ill. At first I thought it was the usual stomach trouble caused by eating filth. So I rushed about looking
for grass to eat. Grass makes me sick. There is no grass in our house. So I got very agitated and started chewing the doormat
in the hope it would have the same effect.

It was very late, but the Man took me out and I ate a lot of real grass and was sick. I am very good at being sick. Once my
stomach is full of grass I can vomit at will, contracting muscles so that I ripple from tail to head. It always makes me feel
better. Last night I felt better for only a couple of hours, then I felt even worse than before. I started rushing around
again—forgetting that there is no grass in the house—and bumped into all the chairs and tables. The Man got out of bed looking
very frightened, and asked me, “Are you all right?” It was a silly question.

The Man knelt down and started to rub behind my ears. That is what he always does when he is worried about me. Rubbing behind
my ears was the last thing I wanted, so I ran off looking for grass in the dining room. While I was under the table he made
a telephone call. Then he put his trousers on over his pyjamas and we went into the car. There was no grass in the car. I
did not look forward to the journey, but the Man said, “We are going to see the vet,” as if I would be pleased by the news.
I do not like vets. When I was very young, a vet stuck a needle in me.

The Man lifted me onto a table and the vet squeezed my stomach. I do not like strangers squeezing my stomach, so I tried to
bite him. The vet said he would have to take a photograph of my insides before he could make me feel better. He then stuck
a needle in me. It made me go to sleep.

When I woke up, I was in a cage in the vet’s cellar. At first I was very frightened because I thought I was back at the dogs”
home. So I howled a lot. Then the
Man came in, knelt down and rubbed behind my ears as usual. When I saw him, I knew everything would be all right.

On the way home, he told me what was wrong with me. A bit of chicken I had picked up on the road had been wrapped in something
called “plastic wrap” which is invisible. Even the photographs of inside my stomach missed it at first, so I am not to be
blamed for not seeing it. The plastic wrap had blocked up my bowels. “You’ve got to get rid of it,” he said, “or we’ll have
to cut you open.” I think he thought that would encourage me to take the medicine the vet had given us.

The Man went on and on about not eating rubbish. “How many times have I told you that it would make you ill?” He did not expect
an answer, but said, “There should be a law against dropping chicken in the street.” He is wrong. Chicken that has been walked
on is one of life’s great delights. When he told me that taking me out at night was “like going for a walk with a vacuum cleaner,”
I pretended to be sick again.

Getting rid of the plastic wrap was wonderful. Every three hours for a full day he gave me a spoonful of medicine called liquid
paraffin. Then we went for a walk. The walks got very boring, but the liquid paraffin had a sticky sweet taste. After the
third dose, I tried to eat the spoon.

At four o’clock this morning—I think it was the seventh walk, but I lost count—he poked about with an old walking stick he
had suddenly started to carry and said, “Thank God. At last.” When we got back home, I sat down and waited for a spoonful
of medicine. “Look,” the Man said, “Buster’s addicted to liquid paraffin.” Then he went to bed.

When the telephone rang this morning, I barked. It made everybody jump, including me, for I had never barked before. Now that
I have started, I don’t think I will ever stop. People always jump when I bark, and making people jump is one of my greatest
pleasures.

He has got it into his head that I am overprivileged. “Never done a day’s work in your life.” He does not understand that
my job is looking after him. I wake him up as soon as the newspapers are delivered. I chew the mail before he opens it. I
protect him from cats and keep him fit by taking him for a walk four times a day Now that I can bark, he is protected from
people who want to talk to him in the street. I make so much noise that he always says, “Sorry about this,” and walks away.

The best part of my job is making him grin like an idiot by rolling on my back, lying with my legs in the air, jumping on
his knee or just acting with endearing charm—which I do most of the time. Sometimes I think I have an even more important
job. That is to take the blame for things I did not do. Marks on the carpet. Chairs overturned. Newspapers torn in half. Deliveries
that are never made. Someone always says, “It must be Buster’s fault.” That part of my job is full-time.

We went back to the vet’s to make sure I am fit and well. He did not squeeze my stomach. That may be because I look so healthy
or because I tried to bite him the last time he did it. The Man asked him about my food, and the vet said he had once eaten
sawdust balls himself, just as a test. It was the only dog food he would consider eating. The difference between the vet and
me is that he ate them once, I eat them all the time.

The vet went on to the Man about how sawdust balls kept me regular and healthy. But the Man asked, “Wouldn’t he prefer boiled
offal and chicken from the supermarket, like the food my mother gives to her dog, Sally?” The vet replied, “He would prefer
decomposed rats that he dug up from under hedges.” The vet was right. Then he said, “But it would not be good for him.” That
spoilt everything.

The Man said, “Perhaps we don’t give him enough to eat. We always stick to what it says on the packet. But he still picks
up all the filth on the road. Perhaps he is really hungry.” The vet then said a very wicked thing. “Greedy dogs like Buster
want to eat all the time and will eat anything.”

From now on, the Man will make jokes about “greedy dogs like Buster.” I do not think they are very funny.

One of the nicest times is when the Man comes home at night. He always wants to sit on the sofa and watch television. I sit
next to him and spill his tea by leaning against his arm just as he begins to drink it. He puts his arm round me and says,
“Careful Buster.” I am never careful. I lick his face and then leap on him. She says, “He is trying to dominate you. It’s
not affection, it’s an attempt to dominate.” By then I have got my feet on his shoulders and his face is wet all over. The
Man says, “It’s not an attempt. He’s succeeding.” When I calm down, he talks to me about what he has been doing all day Sometimes
I don’t understand the details, but I like the noise he makes.

The Man scratches my stomach and I lie across his knee in ridiculous positions, often with my head hanging over the side of
the sofa and all four feet up in the air. I stay there until the Man says, “Let’s go to
bed, Buster.” Then I run into my bed and go to sleep straight away. There is general agreement that I am very good at going
to bed when told. That is because I would have liked to go to bed much earlier. I get bored with the Man talking to me about
his day. On most nights I want to go to bed half an hour before he tells me to, but I don’t like to hurt his feelings.

The Man says we have to talk seriously about discipline. He says I have no idea what the word means. That is true. I know
he read about it in a book when he first adopted me. As far as I can remember, it involves constant pointless indignities.

I am no longer allowed to go through doors before he does. I have only to get my nose over the threshold for him to shout,
“Back up! Back up!” I am then expected to walk backwards and stand absolutely still until he goes out in front of me. He has
decided to prove that he is senior to me in the pack. It is obvious to me that he isn’t. If he were leader, instead of all
this
“Back up!” and “Sit!” nonsense, he would just bite me when I annoy him.

There has been an incident. The newspapers said it took place in the park, but my behavior in the park was perfectly normal.
The extraordinary event happened in the street when we were on our way home from the morning’s walk. A police car pulled up
alongside us. Two police officers got out, one of each sort. The policeman spoke. “Excuse me, Sir. Has your dog killed a goose
in St James’s Park?” he asked. “Not that I know of,” the Man replied, looking startled.

The policewoman patted me on the side of the head in the way that the
RSPCA
recommend for greeting strange dogs. She held up her hand as if she were stopping traffic. It had blood on it. “Good God,”
the Man said. Then the policewoman ran her finger round the inside of my collar. A lot of feathers came out. The police officer
told the Man, “Get in the car.” The Man got in the front seat. I jumped on his knee and, since I was facing him, I licked
his face. He said, “For God’s
sake, not now Buster.” The policeman said, “You are not obliged to say anything, but if you fail to mention something that
you subsequently use in evidence… ” When we got home, the Man said, “You’ve really done it this time, Buster.”

The police say I broke the law by being off the lead in the park. It is not true. I had not been off the lead. But the Man
had. He was bending down doing his usual peculiar business with the plastic bag, when I gave the expanding lead a big tug.
He let go. So I trotted off, and ended up in the rhododendron bushes, with the lead trailing behind me. For several minutes,
he was totally out of my control and in breach of the park’s regulations.

I was not alone in the rhododendron bushes for long. Suddenly a goose appeared. Geese are supposed to be frightened by dogs
and fly away. But this one barely seemed to notice that I was there. It just fluttered its wings a bit and went on pecking
the ground. Naturally I was offended. So I gave it a nip in the back of the neck. It waddled off, and I went into my stalking
mode. When it flopped over the fence between the path and the pond, I lost interest. How was I to know that it belonged to
the Queen?