Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man (7 page)

The one thing about which the Man is always really stern is sitting down on curbs before we cross—me, that is, not him. Even
when other people run off to the other
side of the road, he says, “Wait, Buster, for the little green man to walk.” I have never seen the little green man on the
traffic light. Perhaps only human beings can see him, in the way that only sheepdogs can hear high notes on whistles. Anyway,
as soon as the little green man comes into his view, we walk across the road—very slowly and on a very short lead.

We all thought I had learned months ago to come back when called. And generally speaking I have. There is, however, a special
problem on summer evenings which I just don’t know how to overcome. All over the park people are sitting down on the grass
and eating sandwiches. The ham and the tuna, the salt beef and the chicken are all exactly at my eye level and, more important,
at my nose level as well. I have now reached a degree of self-control which I think would allow me to look and sniff without
snatching and eating. But the people who own the sandwiches are too stupid to understand.

You may find it hard to believe, but if you run at
full speed towards a recumbent American teenage tourist with a frankfurter hot dog in her hand, she will immediately scream
and throw the hot dog in the air. Of course, I catch it (admittedly usually after the second bounce) and swallow it before
the Man can snatch it from me. I then run on to the next group of holiday-makers in the hope that they will behave in the
same way. They always do. Their stupid conduct would have severely jeopardised my training program, had the Man not stopped
taking me to the park in the evening.

I am beginning to learn to come back when called. It is very much in my own interests. If I can be relied on to return as
required, I can be let off the lead when in the park. I shall then be free to urinate against the trees of my choice. Choosing
my own trees is very important, since I urinate not to relieve my bladder but to prove that I was the last dog on the spot.

Unfortunately, hard though I try, I sometimes fail to heed the call. There is no particular reason for my disobedience. I
just wander off aimlessly or run
nowhere in particular. The Man shouts, whistles and holds biscuits in the air in the hope that the wind will blow the smell
towards me. No matter how long it takes to attract my attention, he always gives me a biscuit when I return. In a month or
two, the idea of eating and doing what I am told will be connected in my mind and I shall swallow my pride and hurry back
to swallow a biscuit as quickly as possible. In the meantime, there is nothing to be gained by saying I have “cloth ears.”
I have very handsome ears and they are not made of cloth.

Last night we went for a walk by the place where the police dogs live. I don’t think they are the dogs who disarm desperadoes
and rescue children from burning buildings. They are the sniffers who find where drugs are hidden and explosives planted.
Sniffing is one of my greatest pleasures, but I would not like to do it for a living. If I became a police dog, I would disarm
criminals and rescue children from burning buildings. We never see the sniffer dogs. But we do hear
them moaning. I take no notice, for it is their territory not mine, but he always uses their noise as an excuse to go on
about my failure to earn my living. He thinks he is being funny. I find it very hurtful.

That does not stop him going on about dogs with brandy barrels hanging from their necks who rescue climbers from the snow,
dogs who guard factories, dogs who round up sheep, dogs who collect dead pheasants, dogs who pull sledges, dogs who chase
foxes and dogs who lead blind people about. He says that in Israel there are dogs who go across the border into the Lebanon,
chasing terrorists. They have time bombs fastened to their backs. I think he invented it, just to make me feel grateful. “Your
problem, Buster,” he always says, “is that you don’t have a trade.”

I have been thinking about which job would suit me best if I were ever allowed out on my own. I think I would make a wonderful
detective. I am, by nature, curious. I cannot pass a hole without wanting to put my head in it or walk alongside a wall without
wanting to look over it.
I sniff at every black bag I pass in the street and try to make the Man turn his pockets out to prove that he does not have
biscuits concealed about his person. Sad, really. Fate has made me a security guard when I should have been head of the local
police department. Fortunately I am indomitably cheerful by nature.

The Man has invented a new way to stop me making a nuisance of myself at breakfast when I am supposed to sit under the table—ideally
with my head affectionately on his feet. If he had his way, I would be fed as soon as we get back from our walk. But She is
in charge of food and, being a stern disciplinarian, She makes me wait—just to prove who’s boss.

I can contain myself in patience until their break fast is over, contenting myself with the toast crumbs which bounce off
the Man’s stomach. But when I sense that even he can’t eat any more, I pop up between his knees and push my nose up to table
level. Sometimes I bang my head, but I don’t mind. If he is leaning back and there is room, I get my paws onto his lap.

“Bad dog, Buster,” he shouts, and hits me over the head with the newspaper he is reading. He has done it each morning for
the last week and, although it does not hurt, I still don’t expect it so it always gives me a nasty shock and I gently subside
back onto the carpet. His blows are absolutely indiscriminate. If he is reading the
Guardian,
he hits me with the
Guardian.
If he has
The Times
in his hand, I get
The Times.
He calls it the up-market deterrent. This morning it was the
Daily Mirror.
He said I had been subject to the ultimate humiliation.

Today the Man took even longer than usual to get ready for our walk. He was late getting up. So I was bursting from the moment
that he woke me. I waited patiently enough while he put on the usual seven or eight layers of clothes. Watching him lace up
his walking boots (which always takes about an hour) was more difficult to endure calmly—particularly since they are an affectation
and totally unnecessary for the couple of miles
we stroll across fields. I knew that, even when he had struggled into the overcoat with the belt I chewed, there would still
be a long delay while he searched for the long lead, the short lead, his keys and his cell phone, all of which would be hidden
in different parts of the house. Why he does not put them in the same place every night, I shall never know. Then, as usual,
before we got as far as the door, he remembered that he had to go back into the kitchen and get a plastic bag and biscuits
to give me when the bag was filled. I gritted my teeth and tried to think of something else.

It was raining, so, after a single step into the yard, he decided he needed a hat. Then he thought it prudent to change from
the top coat with the belt I chewed into the waterproof jacket with the pocket I tore. That, he quickly decided, would expose
his legs to the storm. He went back for his long trenchcoat. By the time he had fastened all the complicated buckles and belts,
the rain had got much worse. So he unlaced his boots and put his Wellingtons on instead. I just sat there until I was quite
sure he was ready. Then I was so happy to be on the move that I got the lead wrapped round my legs. “Buster,” he said, “you
are a terrible nuisance in the mornings.” I put it down to
his embarrassment at the unfairness of it all. I have no shoes and one suit which I wear night and day, summer and winter.
He has so many clothes that it takes him an hour to get ready for our morning walk. And he says I am a nuisance! My only consolation
is that my one suit looks so good on me.

We are facing a communications crisis. It is not my fault. He reads all those books and newspaper articles about how to look
after me, but, although we have lived together for months, he still does not give me clear and consistent instructions. I
am not sure how hard he tries. Whoever is to blame, I’m the one who always gets into trouble. Sometimes I think he expects
me to read his mind.

I want to do what pleases him—particularly since pleasing him is usually followed by a biscuit—but I need to know what he
wants. Take, for example, “jumping up”—when I assume the heraldic position of Buster Rampant (which is more or less what I
am at the time) and scratch at him with my front paws. Unfortunately,
he is never able to make up his mind whether or not he likes it. All I can be sure of is that he does not find it much fun
when he is wearing his pyjamas. Fully dressed, he has been known to take my paws in his hands and cry, “Shall we dance? One,
two, three. Look! I’m Yul Brynner and Buster is Deborah Kerr.” No sooner am I vertical than he begins to rub behind my ears,
scratch my stomach and (when nobody is looking) lean down so that I can lick his face. But at other times, he either sways
out of my path so my front paws hit the floor with a thump, or just shouts at me. It is all very disturbing. A dog needs certainty.

Living with someone who cannot decide what is right and what is wrong is very hard, especially for a dog whose father was
an Alsatian and who is, therefore, genetically inclined towards obedience. The problem was made worse today when the Man couldn’t
remember the right words to describe what he wanted me to do. He was totally confused about “Down.”

There is absolutely no doubt what “Down” means.
When the word is spoken clearly and in an authoritative tone—particularly if the speaker is holding a biscuit—“Down” means
“Imitate one of the lions at the foot of Nelson’s Column by lying absolutely still, stomach flat on floor, back legs outstretched
and front legs neatly side by side until you are told otherwise.” It does not mean “Stop jumping up.” Yet today, immediately
after breakfast, when I made a speculative leap to test the sort of mood he was in, he pushed me away and said, “Down,” in
an absentminded sort of way. What I needed was either a rub behind the ears or a “No, Buster. Bad dog.” It is a miracle that
I am not totally out of control.

The dog warden—who is a lady—came round this morning. At first I was very frightened. I thought she had been sent by the police
to decide whether or not I am a pit bull terrier and should be shot. In fact, she was very nice and talked about me in an
affectionate way. She said she wanted us to avoid trouble. I sat very still. She gave us a leaflet.

The leaflet described the things that dogs can do
in my neighborhood. It also described what they cannot do. The “cannot do” part of the leaflet took up most of the space
and even the “can do” things can be done only on the pavement, not on the road.

There was a horrible description of roundworm
(Toxocara canis),
an advertisement for something called easy-to-use pooper-scoopers, and a picture of a Fido machine. A man was leading it
along on the end of a wire. Owning a Fido machine cannot be half as much fun as having a real dog. You can take it for a walk,
but you can’t stroke or pat it and it can’t jump on your knee or lick your face. And the Fido machine cannot bark. The leaflet
says that barking is important. “One of the pleasures of owning a dog is hearing its welcoming bark when you return home.”
Quite right.

The leaflet spoilt everything by saying that “a barking dog can cause friction between neighbors” and suggesting that dog
owners go to obedience classes. I think the Man would be very boring if he was obedient all the time. If he always walked
simply by my side without ever making a noise or jumping about, life would not be much fun for me. He would be just like a
cocker spaniel—all floppy ears and dopey expression. I think men need to show a bit of character.

The dog warden told the Man that, for my own sake, I ought to join Pettrac National Pet Registration scheme. When he asked
her what I would have to do, she told him, “Have a chip implanted under the skin at the back of his neck.” The idea makes
no sense to me. When we are out late at night and I find a chip in the road, I am not allowed to eat it. I cannot imagine
enjoying having one buried under my fur even if, as the dog warden promised, it would mean that I could be “held on the national
computer.” I get held far too much anyway. But the Man is a sucker for fancy ideas. I fear that I shall soon be implanted.

Anyway, we are safe from the dog warden for a while. She is going to have a baby. After she had gone, the Man said, “At least,
Buster, nobody will be able to blame you for that.”

According to the newspapers, the Man was in court this morning, charged with behavior “contrary to Regulations 3(6)(b) of
the Royal and other parks and gardens regulations 1977.” In fact, he wasn’t really in court at all.
A solicitor went for him and read out the letter the Man had written. It took him almost a whole day to write and, in the
end, he decided to tell the truth about bending down to collect my excrement and relaxing his grip on the long lead. He really
has no excuse for letting me behave like that. As I have made clear more than once, the price of Buster is eternal vigilance.

After about fifty telephone calls with the solicitor, he decided that the letter should include what he calls a joke. “In
fact, Buster was never off the lead. Unfortunately I was.” As soon as he had mailed the letter he started to worry about the
joke costing him an extra £100. The rest of the letter was very pious. “I am naturally most disturbed by the news that he
killed the goose and very much regret its death.”

As we might have expected, it was the
Evening Standard
which was waiting for us when we went out for our morning walk, and their photographer took more pictures of me. The Man
said he was going to stand by me. The reporter followed us all the way to Green Park. I was careful to sit very still when
we had to wait for the traffic lights to change. When we got to Buckingham Palace, a policeman said, “I see the reptiles have
been let out today.” I thought he meant me, but the Man knew
better. He asked the policeman what would happen if he strangled the reporter and the policeman replied, “I would shake you
by the hand.” Despite this encouragement, the Man did not strangle the reporter, who went home when we got to the muddy part
of Green Park.