Buster

by Caleb Huett

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prodogue

  Chapter 1: Buster’s Testimony

  A Classic Lassie

  Chapter 2: Buster’s Testimony

  Chapter 3

  Frisbee!

  Chapter 4: Buster’s Testimony

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chasing Details

  Chapter 9: Buster’s Testimony

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  No Place for Bad Dogs

  Chapter 16: Buster’s Testimony

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  The End

  Reunion

  Tonio’s Choice

  Family Dinner

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  You never know how many bones you’ve buried until somebody digs them up. Buster tried to shake the old saying from his head, but it was stuck like peanut butter on the tip of his nose. You have to focus, he reminded himself.

  “Everything is going to be fine!” Lasagna Morris, a golden-brown corgi with a clip-on tie attached to his collar, nudged the latch on his briefcase to gently click it into place. He patted the top with his paw in an attempt to look confident, but Buster could tell he was nervous. “I’m the best Dog Court lawyer in South Carolina!”

  Buster checked himself in the mirror. It made him look like a furry red balloon, puffed up and huge, so he tried the next mirror. That one made him look like a pile of sticks, and not even the sturdy kind. Why did we have to get ready in the fun house? he thought. Out loud, he observed, “They said you were the only lawyer in South Carolina.”

  “That’s, well … true. So I’m right for sure.” Lasagna gave a short yip, a gentle one, to get Buster’s full attention. His eyes were serious, and his ears were swiveled in a position that meant he was being sincere. “The most important thing is that I’m on your side. You’re a Good Dog, Buster, no matter what the Court says.”

  “Thank you.” Buster bowed his head. “That means a l—”

  A grinning clown face built into the wall laughed through a crackly speaker, causing Lasagna to leap stiff-legged into the air and bark wildly. After he landed, he tucked his tail in embarrassment. “Remember: Don’t lie. Judges can always tell, so there’s no use. They’re specially trained.” Lasagna lifted a paw and checked his watch. “The trial starts soon. Are you ready?”

  Lasagna’s words had helped. The little voice in Buster’s head—the one that was still saying, You messed up, you broke Dog Law and deserve to be punished—quieted down. He hadn’t buried any bones. And Tonio needed him.

  Dog Court could dig all they wanted.

  “I’m ready.”

  Juicy Fun Theme Park and Strawberry Orchard had been abandoned for years, really abandoned, like whoever-owned-it-disappeared-from-the-country-without-telling-anyone-so-nobody-could-do-anything-to-it abandoned. No humans other than teenagers had bothered to go inside for years.

  “All rise for the honorable Judge Sweetie!” the Dog Court bailiffs, four pugs wearing pointy blue hats, howled in unison. “Now sit. Sit. Come on. Sit. Good.”

  Some dog had reconnected the power, but most of the rides in Juicy Fun were too broken-down to use. Dog Court was held in the bumper car arena: Busted old cars teetered atop one another in a pile the judge was climbing with graceful leaps. Colorful lights flashed and spun in patterns over everything.

  The judge slammed her squeaky rubber gavel down three times, and all barking, yipping, and yelping settled. Terriers and retrievers, boxers and schnauzers, greyhounds and huskies all squeezed into the seats of discarded bumper cars—so many that larger dogs were graciously lying down to allow smaller ones to sit on their backs. Dead silence fell on the courtroom, and everyone was staring at Buster, who shared the only spotlight that wasn’t spinning.

  The light made Buster feel small, but somehow made the judge—a serious-looking borzoi with a coat as black and white as her sense of justice—seem impossibly huge and intimidating. He remembered a trick someone had told Tonio for dealing with nerves: Imagine everyone in their underwear.

  He tried thinking of the judge in big human boxers. That might be funny, but she was so confident and poised he was certain she could pull it off with style.

  Maybe the trick didn’t really work with dogs.

  “Do you understand, Buster?” Oh no. The judge had been talking the whole time he’d been totally distracted thinking about underwear.

  “Buster? Are we boring you? Too famous for us?”

  “No, I—” He froze. He definitely could not tell her what he was thinking about. The judge’s ears rotated and folded, just slightly, to show she was irritated.

  “Your Honor.” Another spotlight clicked on, over a husky with perfectly groomed fur and a twist to his tail that meant he was expressing humor. “Buster clearly doesn’t grasp how serious this situation is, considering this is his second time on trial for the baddest crime a dog can commit: revealing his true intelligence to a human.” The husky shrugged and looked directly at Buster with a sneer. “Perhaps, for him, this is just another day at the park.”

  A cry rang out from the crowd. “THROW HIM IN THE BONE PIT!”

  “The bone pit is for celebrations, Sadie,” someone else whispered.

  “THROW HIM IN THE REGULAR PIT!”

  The judge banged her gavel, and its squeaks quieted the crowd again.

  “Your Honor,” Lasagna said, “the speaker for Dog Law hasn’t even introduced himself, and he’s already trying to build a case against Buster.”

  The judge turned her head toward the husky. He rolled his shoulders and stood, tail wagging rhythmically like a clock pendulum.

  “My name is Pronto, Your Honor, and as the little lawyer says, I’m here on behalf of the Law.” He bowed toward the tower of bumper cars. “While you, of course, have final ruling over this dog’s fate, I believe the law here is clear: Buster Pulaski showed a human the truth, putting all of us in danger. I am officially requesting that you send him to The Farm.”

  A gasp rippled through the crowd, and a chill raised Buster’s fur. “Your Honor.” He awkwardly mimicked Pronto’s bow, just in case. “I never meant to put Dogkind in danger. I made a hard choice—but I’d do it again if it meant helping my human.”

  Lasagna winced. Buster was not supposed to be talking.

  Pronto clicked his claws against the hood of his bumper car in a sarcastic clap. “Such a hero! Buster the Miracle Dog!”

  Buster’s eyes fell to the ground. I guess there was no chance they’d forget.

  Pronto leaned back on the side of his car and spoke to the crowd behind them. “We have no idea how humans will react when they realize the truth—and they are, historically, a very dangerous species. Our silence, our continued secrecy, is the only thing that keeps us safe. You have threatened this safety, Buster, all for the sake of this …” He checked his notes. “Antonio.”

  The sound of his boy’s name made Buster bristle. “Tonio is a good boy. My job was to protect him.”

  “Your job was to lay low!” Pronto barked a laugh. “To live the rest of your dog years in Bellville, quietly, without making any more trouble.”

  “Tonio was my responsibility. I couldn’t just do nothing!”

  “Well, I sincerely hope this human was worth the rest of your life.”

  Lasagna finally worked up the courage to squeak out an argument. “Your Honor, this is all out of order.
Buster hasn’t even had the chance to tell his side of the story.”

  “He doesn’t need to!” Pronto turned back to the judge. “The line between Good and Bad Dog behavior is very clear. Furthermore, thanks to Buster, the humans could be planning something as we speak. We don’t have time to waste on this trial.”

  This is it, Buster thought. I’m not even going to get a chance.

  Lasagna shook his head. “I understand the urgency of this situation, but Dog Law is very clear that anyone accused of Bad Dog behavior must be allowed to tell their side of the story. You of all dogs should know that, Pronto.”

  The judge turned her snout from Lasagna to Buster to Pronto. We must all look so small to her, up there, Buster thought. When she spoke, all ears perked up to listen. “He is correct. The accused will speak.”

  Pronto bowed again. “Of course, Your Honor.” He turned his sneer on the corgi. “This won’t change anything, Lasagna. You’re begging for scraps.”

  The judge returned her gaze to Buster. “Begin.”

  Life at The Farm would mean no more days at the dog park. No more scratches behind his big, floppy ears. No more humans. And no more Tonio.

  A deep breath. A strong stance. Buster kept his eyes up and looked straight at the judge. “For everything to make sense, I have to start with the last time I ended up in Dog Court …” He glanced at Lasagna, who bobbed supportively.

  “… back when I was Buster the Miracle Dog.”

  I’ve never been very good at the sit-and-stay. When I decided to become a fire dog, I was told over and over by humans and dogs to follow my orders and only my orders. Do the tricks. Never make my own choices. That’s what makes a Good Dog.

  And I believed it! I took it to heart and followed every rule as closely as possible to make sure I was the Goodest, most helpful, most fire-doggiest fire dog I could be. As a puppy, I imagined myself with one of those big red hats on my head, tugging a hose around in my mouth and carrying babies out of burning buildings.

  Turns out that’s not what fire dogs do anymore, if they ever did. “Sit for the picture, Buster!” they’d say. “Stay here and watch the station until we get back, okay, buddy?”

  “Isn’t he so cute in that little hat?” and “He’s so lucky, getting to lie around all day.”

  “Such a cutie.” Or the worst: “What a mascot!”

  Mascot. I was a Good Dog who might as well have been a stuffed animal.

  So I started chasing fires. I would listen in to where my humans were being sent, then sneak out on my own and try to help without getting caught. My team covered only a small area of the big city, so I could make it to the majority of emergency calls on foot.

  Most of the time I could only help in small ways—every once in a while I’d sniff out a piece of important evidence and lead someone there, or I’d run along the perimeter and push people out of the danger zone. Usually, I would find humans after they’d been saved and comfort them the best I could.

  The time I became Buster the Miracle Dog I was playing low-contact no-human Fetch (street rules) with some other dogs in the park, when I smelled smoke.

  One sniff: Hungarian food. No, not that. Two sniffs: smoke. Definitely smoke from an active fire. Started with grease, maybe? Probably from a kitchen, mixed with—three sniffs—Hungarian food. The restaurant was on fire!

  I didn’t hesitate, didn’t think about being a Good Dog. I dove in. By the time the rest of my team from the station had arrived, I’d evacuated the restaurant with some vigorous barking.

  I was too lost in the action to remember most of it, and I thought the humans didn’t see me do anything un-dog-ly, ’cause the smoke was thick and they were all panicked. But afterward, a couple insisted that I had saved their baby from his high chair and carried him outside myself. I don’t actually remember doing that, maybe I did, but either way, someone from the news listened to their story and came up with the name.

  The concentrated smoke messed up my nose (it’s a little farsmelled now), but I didn’t mind being known as a Miracle Dog. My station was overjoyed, the treats flowed like rain, and it felt like the whole city wanted to shake my hand. But you know how it ended. Dog Court thought I was getting too much attention, hit me with several counts of Reckless Lassie Behavior, and quietly shipped me to Bellville, where nobody knew who I was.

  I still think about my team, sometimes. Do they miss me? I guess they probably think I ran away. Just like Tonio will always wonder what happened, if I don’t—

  Never mind.

  I was supposed to get adopted as a house pet. I was warned to stay out of sight, out of trouble, and make sure no one recognized me … but it sounded so boring. I looked for another chance to do a job, any job, and realized that humans selected service dogs from a shelter in town. Being a psychiatric service dog isn’t exactly big news, so the judge let me try, as long as I promised I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  I was sure that I wouldn’t. I really tried.

  And then I met Tonio.

  “What kind of dog is he?” An adult human with a dripping-wet black jacket, long curly wet hair, and tough-looking boots knelt down and inspected me. (This was Tonio’s mom.) I stood stiff and straight to look capable and serious.

  My trainer, Jocelyn, shrugged. “He’s not any one thing. He’s got the ears and color of a vizsla, but there’s something smaller in him, too. Maybe a couple somethings.”

  A man who was wearing a green uniform with a spaceship logo on it nodded while he folded his umbrella. “Some boxer, I bet.” (This was Tonio’s dad.)

  “Sure, maybe.” Jocelyn shrugged again.

  “Maybe poodle?”

  “Mm, I don’t know about that.” Tonio’s mom tapped the toe of her boot absently on the mat to knock some mud off. “I could see some kind of terrier in there, but poodle?”

  “I think definitely there’s some poodle.”

  Booooooooriiiiiiing! Humans love to talk about us like we’re not there. Not that I had much to add—I never knew my parents.

  “What do you think, Tonio?”

  I tilted my head to watch the boy. He was about eleven human years old, with curly brown hair that normally hangs just above his eyes, but since it was wet and sagging from the rain, he was constantly pushing it out of the way. He said, “Can my parents get their money back if this doesn’t work out?”

  “Oh, Tonio.” Mrs. Pulaski gave my trainer an apologetic look. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “What if he doesn’t like me?” The boy stared at me with wide eyes, like I was absolutely terrifying. “Or what if I can’t take care of him the way you’re supposed to?”

  Before the trainer could answer, Tonio’s mom spoke again. “That’s not anything you need to worry about, Tonio. We’ll figure that out if it happens.”

  “But I—”

  Mr. Pulaski cut in and started talking to my trainer. I watched Tonio tug at one of his dripping curls, and had an idea: an old trick I learned as a fire dog. Whenever a kid was scared of dogs, or nervous around me, I’d do something totally goofy and cute to help them calm down. I was sure the same thing would work here, so I jingled my collar for his attention.

  He looked up right away. I did a big, exaggerated shake of my whole body, like I was the one who was wet.

  Tonio didn’t get it. It’s easy, I thought. Just shake off the water. I took a deep breath and shook even harder, like a ghost had just passed through me and I had a chill all the way down in my bones. It’s the fastest way to get dry, see?

  I saw it dawn on his face. His head tilted like a puppy’s, and after a second, he shook his head, just slightly, and flung little droplets around. I wagged my tail and wiggled my body again. He shook his hair out harder and laughed.

  “Did you hear that, Tonio?” His mom grabbed his attention, and my trainer began to explain the different ways I had been trained to help with his anxiety. I performed the ones she asked me to demonstrate and tried to look as professional as possible, but I spen
t the rest of the training session thinking about the rain-shaking moment we’d shared.

  Most humans don’t know how to talk. They can speak, sure, but any puppy with a few treats in front of them can speak. I could already tell that Tonio knew the most important part of really talking: paying attention. Every time he looked at anyone—the trainer, his parents, even me—he was watching them with so much focus. He didn’t make as much noise as the other humans, but he listened, and he watched. I felt lucky to get paired with him.

  “So try this,” my trainer said to Tonio, who was paying close attention. “Let’s say you’re about to have a panic attack and you want to get out of a room full of people. Just tap on your leg like this.” She tapped on her leg and I broke my stance, whining and pawing at her ankle. “Buster will start pretending he needs to use the restroom. Then it’s easy for you to say, ‘Oh, just a minute, I need to go take my dog out.’ Now you try.”

  My trainer handed Tonio the leash. He put his hand on his leg and repeated the tapping. “Like th—achoo!” He sneezed, but since he’d done the hand signal right, I whined again and pawed at his leg. He sniffled and didn’t even seem to notice I’d done anything—he was totally frozen.

  “That’s great!” Jocelyn continued. “You can give him one of those treats as a reward.”

  I perked up. As you know, it’s essential that, in front of humans, we pretend that food is the most important thing in the world, so I had to look excited at the word treat. Tonio nodded but didn’t move for the bag. Instead, he rubbed at his nose and stared off into the distance. He was starting to sweat, just a little, and I could hear that his breath was changing.

  “Tonio?” His mom’s wet boots squeaked on the floor. “Are you all right?”

  “I, uh, I don’t—I’ll be right back.” He made a straight line to the door with a very fast and serious walk.

  Both of Tonio’s parents followed him into the hallway and shut the door for privacy. I, of course, could hear everything.

  “I think I’m allergic to him. I must be allergic to dogs,” the boy said. So that’s what this is about, I thought. The sneeze.

  “I don’t think so, honey,” his mom said. “We just took that allergy test, remember?”