Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man (6 page)

By then I was back on the lead and I was ready to
go home. But he knelt down in the wet grass and felt me all over to see if anything was broken. “This dog was out of control,”
the policeman told him. “I’ve read about him. He’s been in trouble before.” “Give me your number,” the Man said, forgetting
that the policeman had given it to him already Another man came up to us. He was wearing a uniform and said that he was an
Inspector of the Park Police. I thought he sounded worried about what had happened to me. He felt me all over too, and said
nothing was broken. Then we went home. The Man shouted over his shoulder to the policeman who kicked me, “I shall make an
official complaint.” I could tell by his voice that he didn’t mean it. I sometimes think domestication is overrated. I get
regular meals and a warm bed, but when I get kicked there is no pack to defend me. I can’t imagine the Man tearing anybody’s
throat out.

Improvement

In which Buster, by means of which he is unaware, is helped by his friends to achieve greater—though not complete—composure,
and in a reflective mood, considers his future as a human’s companion, rather than as a wolf.

He has been to the pet shop again. At first I used to be pleased when he came home with a sack of sawdust balls and a box
of biscuits. Now I dread it, for he always brings back with him some patent idea for promoting canine happiness. Whilst he
congratulates himself on being a caring person, I become a victim of the latest scheme for taking money from gullible dog
owners. If I went to the pet shop with him, I might be able to show my disapproval, but I have not been allowed to go since
I tried to eat the parrot.

The latest example of his gullibility is called a “halti.” It is a series of straps which are fastened
round my head and face and—in theory—prevent me from growling and biting. He gets very upset when people call it a muzzle.
Haltis are politically correct. I can wear one and still open my mouth wide enough to eat, drink, breathe and growl and bite.
But it restrains my more violent instincts.

The halti was invented by an animal psychologist who decided that a bit of webbing under the chin would make dogs cautious
about how they behaved. The idea that it was cruel to undermine our self-confidence never struck him. One day, when I am with
three people in the car, he will make me wear both the halti and the Precious Cargo travelling harness. I will look like a
bondage freak. I admit the halti stops me from making a nuisance of myself. It is not, however, because it makes me feel vulnerable.
A masculine dog does not want to draw attention to himself when he is wearing something that looks like an Alice band.

One morning I shall go mad. I don’t know how I have stood it for more than six months. I accept that
it is a dog’s duty to wait. But the interval between returning from my walk and getting my breakfast is intolerable. I am
reconciled to everyone finishing their breakfast before mine is even thought of. But now the process of transferring food
from bucket into bowl is artificially extended. Not only is it carefully measured out, but the bowl is methodically washed
every morning. When did a dog ever catch food poisoning because its bowl had been left unwashed for a week? They only do it
to annoy because they know it teases.

I thought that human companionship would be enough, but since I met Silky I have begun to feel a desperate need of female
canine company Unfortunately, there is none at home. Brief and occasional meetings in the park do not provide an opportunity
for the sort of relationship which I have begun to crave. As a result I am, from time to time, driven by mysterious forces
into what I know to be bizarre behavior. But I am unable to resist.

I find myself sitting in my basket and howling like a wolf baying at the moon. I expect the Man to react violently, for he
has no ear for the true music of the wild. But his complaint makes no sense. Instead of objecting to what he hears, he raves
on about something that I can’t even see.

“For God’s sake, Buster!” he cries. “It’s happening again. Worse than ever. We’re going to walk it off.” I am then dragged
down the road at what he calls “light infantry pace.” Strangely enough, at first I do not want to stop at the usual lampposts
and garbage cans. Happily, after a while, the old urge to make my mark returns. “Thank God for that,” the Man says and we
immediately go back home, where he begins to talk seriously about me.

Tonight the Man said he “didn’t know whether to be envious or embarrassed.” She always tells him not to be foolish and face
up to the real problem. So he began to argue with a vet who was not there. “Whatever he says, I hate the idea. We’re supposed
to look after him and he suggests we mutilate the poor little chap.” The Man then got angry “I’ve told you. It’s nothing to
do with my own complexes. I haven’t got any. I just don’t want to hurt him.” Before he went
to bed, he was near to tears. “OK. So he’ll be happier. It’s supposed to be for his own good. Perhaps we should protect him
from running under a bus by cutting off his legs as well.” I did not like all the talk about cutting my legs off, so I jumped
into my bed and howled. “Oh God!” said the Man. “It’s happening again. That’s twice in twenty-five minutes.” Even though it
was time for bed, he telephoned the vet and talked about me very seriously indeed.

“Are you sure it will be better for him?… If you’re sure he won’t feel any pain, or change character.… It’s not being fierce
that is a problem, it’s being frustrated… Probably in Derbyshire… . My mother’s vet in Sheffield… . He’ll have a garden in
case walking is difficult… . Nevertheless, we’ll have it done up there.”

We drove up to Derbyshire late last night. This morning we went on our walk very early. He kept patting me as if we were saying
goodbye. I like to run about smelling the bushes where the sheep have been and
pushing my head into rabbit holes, but he kept calling me back and patting me. But he did not give me one biscuit. And when
we got home, he did not give me any breakfast. Instead he listened to a message from his mother’s vet. It said, “Get here
by ten o’clock.” I am always depressed on the way to see a vet. For, whatever else they do, vets always end up sticking needles
in me. But this morning I felt particularly gloomy. The Man was so sad that I thought that he was going to cry. And I always
share his emotions.

There was a guinea pig in a cage in the waiting room, but we went straight into the surgery. The Man lifted me onto a table
and a young lady with long red hair listened to my heartbeat down a stethoscope. The Man turned me round and held my head
under his arm. A funny feeling where I sit down made me wriggle a bit, but I did not try to bite him. I never try to bite
the Man. He said, “It will be all right, Buster. It’s just a way of taking your temperature.” The young lady with red hair
must have realized that the Man was worried about something, for she said, “There’s really nothing to worry about. He won’t
even notice, and if his character changes, it will be for the better.”
I am not sure what she was talking about. It could not have been me. My character is beyond improvement.

“Can I have some painkillers?” the Man asked. “They won’t be necessary,” the young lady with long red hair said. “I’d like
them all the same,” the Man told her. Then he asked, “Is there an emergency night telephone number?” and was told that wouldn’t
be necessary either. But the Man repeated what he had said: “I’d like it all the same.” Then he added something very interesting.
“I also want a Buster collar.”

I have several collars already. One is specially for fleas. None of them is a Buster collar, which (when the young lady got
it out of the cupboard) I thought was a lampshade. “He won’t scratch,” she told him, “because he won’t know what’s happened.”
The young lady then stuck a needle in me. That is when I realized that, although a woman, she was a vet.

I fell asleep. When I woke up I felt very frightened. But I had only whined for about five minutes when the young lady vet
came in with my collar and lead. I barked when she tried to put it on, but not enough to stop her. The Man was waiting outside.
He knelt down as soon as he saw me and rubbed behind my ears. When I licked his face, there was a salty taste
as if he was crying. I did not make a fuss about it, because I did not want to embarrass him.

“You see,” the young lady vet with long red hair said, “he’s as right as rain. Doesn’t know it’s happened. Perhaps a bit woozy
for an hour or so… .” The Man led me ever so slowly towards the door. I misjudged where it was and walked into the wall. It
didn’t hurt.

This afternoon’s visit to his mother produced the best argument yet. They argue every time we go there. But today they argued
without ever telling each other what they were arguing about. It all started as soon as the Man had hidden Sally’s food. We
walked together into the room where his mother was sitting and, the moment he sat down, he patted his knee so that I would
jump into his lap. “There you are,” he said. “You see… .”

The Man’s mother looked as if he had just bitten her. “Don’t tell me you have… .” she cried, tears filling her eyes. “You
haven’t! You wouldn’t! No son of mine would!” The Man said, “It was for the best.
Three vets said so. It was for his sake.” The Man sounded very nervous.

“Rubbish,” his mother shouted. “You’re just joking, aren’t you? You haven’t really… ?” Then she gave a smile which she meant
him to know was not genuine. He said quickly, “I have, Mother. It’s all over and we can’t put them back, can we?” It was his
turn to give a false grin. His mother told him, “Don’t be horrible.” I could not help him by joining in the fun, since I had
no idea what was going on. “Does he look any different?” the Man asked. I assumed that he was trying to change the subject
by talking about me. “He never even knew it had happened.”

I was trying my best to work out what it was that I did not even know had happened, when the Man’s mother got a box of chocolates
from the cupboard next to her chair and began to feed them to me one by one. “Poor little chap,” she said. The Man groaned.
“For God’s sake, Mum.” For a moment, he forgot all about the prohibition on blasphemy which always comes into force when we
go to see his mother. He rolled me over as if he was going to tickle my stomach and said, “I tell you he’s no idea. If you
don’t believe me… .”

The Man’s mother put her hands over her eyes.
“You know,” she said, “I can’t stand even the thought of cruelty.” She went on to describe Sally’s suffering before she was
rescued. I’d heard the description a dozen times so I rolled back onto my side and went to sleep. When I woke up she was talking
about brutality to pigs.

The Man says he is taking the rap for me—even though I know he was to blame. He read in the paper this morning that he is
to be prosecuted under the Royal Parks Act 1786 as amended 1977 in so much as he failed to keep me under control and allowed
me to harm, injure or kill wildlife, to whit a greylag goose. The Crown Prosecution Service telephoned to say they were sorry
that it was in the paper before he was told about it. They said the newspapers had got the details all wrong but the basic
fact was correct. The Man said, “You could make up for leaking it to the newspapers by dropping the prosecution.” The Crown
Prosecution Service did not reply.

When we went for our walk, a man called Charles Anson stopped us outside Buckingham Palace. He said, “There’s a famous face.”
The Man thought that he meant him, but he meant me. Charles Anson used to work for the Man in the Foreign Office, but now
he talks to newspapers for the Queen. So he had read about my prosecution. “I want you to know,” he said, “that your monarch
is totally on your side. If it’s dog versus goose, she’s for the dog.” The Man asked, “Will she come to court as a character
witness?” Charles Anson said that he seriously doubted it.

I blame Anson for giving him the idea of fighting the case. First we went to St James’s Park to look at the notices. The Man
got very angry when he saw the little notices with big letters, by the edge of the pond, which he says were screwed to the
railings after the goose and I had our disagreement. Unfortunately, the big notice with little writing (which is fastened
to the gate) has been there for years. It says that I must be kept under control. So we can’t plead ignorance. The Man’s other
idea is that the goose would have flown away if the Queen had not clipped its wings so that it
would never leave Buckingham Palace. As we walked home, he talked about basing our defence on the Queen’s wanton cruelty.
Then he telephoned his solicitor and decided instead to plead guilty to both offences by sending a cringing letter.

The Man asked me this morning why I am so stupid about traffic. Fortunately, he does not expect me to reply to his questions,
for I did not know the answer. I ought to realize that a bus, travelling at twenty miles per hour, could squash me flat on
the road. I know that if I saw a cat on the opposite pavement I would forget about the bus and get squashed. So, every time
we go out, he has to stop me from walking into certain death. It is all very puzzling. I am certainly not stupid, but I act
stupid on main roads. Perhaps it is because the wolf that sleeps inside me never knew about buses.