Copyright
Text Copyright © 1998 by Roy Hattersley
Illustrations Copyright © 1998 by Chris Riddell
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-57019-0
Contents
Copyright
Introduction
Part I: Deliverance
Part II: Troubled Times
Part III: Improvement
Part IV: Tolerance
Part V: Realization
Part VI: Sophistication
Epilogue
Introduction
My brother and I were born in the overgrown back garden of a house in Paddington London, sometime during February 1995. When we were a few days old, our mother was bitten by a rat and the man who owned her tied her to a fence post and left her to die. For nearly a week, she survived on water which was leaking from a hose, and she fed us till she died. Then Diana, the lady who lived next door, rescued us. Being too young and stupid to recognize kindness, after a couple of weeks we ran away and started to live rough. It was the beginning of my fascination with garbage. Even now, with two square meals a day and more biscuits than are good for me, I find black bags and garbage cans irresistible.
We had been vagrants for more than two months when Doris Turner saw us running about on Paddington Recreation Ground. Doris ran the Brent Animal Shelter and decided at once that she must find us a good home. Even then, for reasons I can’t explain, I longed for human company. So when Doris called to us, I let her catch me. My brother, being still stupid, ran away again. It was the last time I saw him. Doris said he was my identical twin. Somewhere in North London there is another dog who looks just like me—with the handsome profile of a small Alsatian and the elegant brown-and-gold flecked coat of a Staffordshire bull terrier.
Doris was the first person who ever talked to me. Often I could not understand what she tried to say. But despite that, I liked to listen to the noise she made. Now I understand much more—although I still have difficulty with complicated sentences, especially if they are spoken in a conversational tone. I have a particular problem with subjunctives. But whenever someone speaks to me, I feel happy. Conversation was, I suppose, the beginning of my corruption—or domestication, as humans call it.
Talk is now the noise I hear most often. Because of that, the wolf within me sleeps—although he sometimes dreams. It was the wolf who kept me alive on the Paddington Recreation Ground, but when he dreams, we go back together to the Siberian forest, not to north London. These days I would not swap my bed against the radiator for a patch of frozen moss under a stunted tree. But I am glad that the wolf is still there, snoring away inside me.
When Doris found me, the wolf was still wide awake and I had not yet learnt that a dog has to choose between the luxury of family life and the excitement of the wild. So I expected to live with Doris for ever, listening to her talk when the mood took me and fighting for my life the rest of the time. But Doris, who was old, thought I needed more exercise than she could organize. So she found me a foster home in a flat a couple of roads away from her house. My new owners did their best to burn off my energy But I didn’t settle down. Sheila—a “home-checker” for the Battersea Dogs’ Home—said I “lacked socialization skills with both dogs and humans.” I was taken into canine care. Doris and her friends paid the fees.
The people who ran the dogs’ home kept me warm and well fed. But they did not talk to me. Indeed, they did not talk to any of the dogs. That was not so bad for the others. They were only there for a week or two while their owners were on holiday But I thought I would be there for ever. I lost my appetite and my ribs began to show. Even today, if I think I am going to be left alone, I cannot concentrate on my breakfast.
Hoping somebody would adopt me, my beneficiaries put an advertisement in a dog magazine. It said I was “very clean.” That was true. It was also insulting. There are much better things to say about me than that. A lady in Gloucester, who liked bullterrier crossbreeds wrote to say she might adopt me. But when she saw my picture, I was so thin that she thought I was ill. You have to be a saint to adopt a sick dog.
After a while, I was moved to another kennel in Surrey, where a family kept me—and several other dogs—for more or less nothing. The owners took a special liking to me, perhaps because they were sorry I was so thin or perhaps because they realized what a great dog I would become if someone gave me loving care. They fed me special treats and talked to me a lot. The other dogs did not like me being the favorite. But the wolf inside me kept them in their proper place. I began to grow and put on weight. In fact, I became too healthy for my own good.
I was a victim of the Dangerous Dogs Act. Families which might have adopted me were afraid I would grow into a pit bull terrier, one of the dogs that policemen can take away and shoot. So I stayed at the Surrey kennel for months. Doris died. And I do not know what would have happened to me had Doris’s friends not decided on one last advertisement.
Dogs are not supposed to be given as presents. We are for life, not Christmas. But She came to see me at the Surrey orphanage and decided I was “a dog that a Yorkshireman would be proud to own.” The Man—who comes from Yorkshire—was not sure he wanted to own any dog at all. He now denies it. But I happen to know that I spent two unnecessary extra weeks in Surrey while he argued about the problems of keeping a dog in London and worried what would happen when he wanted to go to Italy for his holidays. The solution to the second problem was, of course, perfectly simple. He doesn’t go to Italy any more.
However, the Man is not as stupid as his first reaction suggests. One day She brought me home. And as soon as he saw me, he knew he wanted to keep me for ever. I was already asleep, but he knelt down by the side of my bed and rubbed me behind the ears. He does that a lot. It is one of his signs of affection. So I enjoy it whether my ears are itching or not. At first, I was not sure how we would get on. I had not even begun to wrestle with the dilemma that all young dogs must face—the choice between independence and comfort. The diary is an account of how I have balanced (not always with complete success) instinct and expediency, self-respect and regular meals, independence and somebody’s voice to listen to when I feel sad or lonely.
Over the two years the Man and I have become friends. That is why I accept, with good grace, his disruptive habits and stood by him when he was prosecuted after the incident with the greylag goose in St James’s Park. Until that day in the spring of 1996, I had taken it for granted that we would live for ever in peaceful obscurity. The goose changed all that. I have become public property. Even today, the Evening Standard Londoner’s Diary telephoned to ask if I had been nominated for one of the “Dogs’ Oscars” and expressed bogus incredulity when told that I was waiting for the Whitbread Prize for Literature for my autobiography.
There have, I admit, been moments when I have enjoyed my fame. I took especial pleasure in the occasion when he was accosted in the street by a lady who told him, “I know what the dog is called, but I can’t remember your name.” But sometimes the newspapers have gone too far. I would have tolerated their constant intrusion had they told the consistent truth. But they have changed me from a dog into a brindle cliché. I want people to know what really happens as man and dog learn to live together by gradually accepting each other’s limitations and acquiring each other’s characteristics. There is more to life than chasing postmen.
Other dogs may resent so intimate a description of the historic battle to reconcile pride in our nature with the comforts of human civilization. To those whom I have offended, I offer my apologies and I express my profound gratitude to the Man for his assistance in putting my diary on paper—though I think he may have invented one or two stories to make it more interesting. Anyway, most of it is true. My earnest wish is that, by working with me on my diaries, he will have found some compensation for his own literary disappointments. These days his frustration is most frequently demonstrated by the constant repetition of third-rate poetry In our early days he was—insensitively you may think—particularly addicted to a line from Oliver Goldsmith: “Puppy mongrel, whelp and hound and cur of low degree.” I have learnt to live with such indignities.
I hope that my story will be an inspiration to young dogs everywhere. Do not think of it as a bark-and-tell expose. It is the account of an odyssey which took a crossbreed orphan from living rough on a public park to the comfort and security of South West London. Within a year of leaving the dogs” orphanage, I was accused (in the Daily Telegraph) of being so middle class that I slept on a bean bag. It was not true. But the accusation—by its source and its nature—illustrates how far and how fast I have traveled. I hope you will enjoy my account of the journey.
PART I
Deliverance
In which Buster, a dog of spirit and fortitude, is saved from a life of want and degradation, and begins to experience both the penalties and the privileges of domestication.
December 17, 1995—London
I think I shall like it here. There are no other dogs, but there is a Man who would like to be one. When I arrived he got down on his hands and knees, and although he told me to stop licking his face, I knew he didn’t mean it. Tomorrow I shall try chewing his ear. Thanks to my dominant personality and animal cunning, I may well become leader of this pack. And even if I don’t, there will be real human beings to talk to me.
Everybody was very good about the vomit. The Man helped clean out the animal ambulance (a broken-down old van) and told the driver that I must suffer from motion sickness as I didn’t seem to be the nervous type. To be honest, I was terrified. Nobody had told me where I was going or what sort of people were going to look after me. Although I look like one of those fighting dogs in the Sunday newspapers’ color magazines, I often feel very insecure. I certainly don’t see myself doing ten rounds with a rottweiler. Whenever a skinhead came into the dogs” home, I sat at the back of my kennel and tried to look like a Pekinese.
The dogs” home sent the Man my blue plastic bed—which was wrong, since it gave a false impression. I am absolutely house-trained. The Man had a new bed ready for me. It is woolly with fake sheepskin on the bottom and there is a tartan rug spread over it. I got in straight away. The only thing wrong with the bed is that it has no smell. I shall put that right in the next day or two.
The Man is very inconsistent—the very worst thing possible if he wants a proper relationship with me. As soon as I curled up in a ball, he forgot all about me looking tough and self-confident and said, “He really looks a friendly little chap. I can’t believe that anyone was frightened of adopting him. He doesn’t look a bit fierce.” I almost bit him there and then. I look very fierce indeed standing up—especially when my mouth is open. He will find out in the morning.
He is the talkative type, which is exactly what I wanted. Before I went to sleep he told me that he’s signed a form promising not to tie me up, lock me out or give me away If I behave badly and he doesn’t want me any more, I have to go back to the dogs” home. Assuming the food is OK, I shall make myself irresistible. It will not be difficult.
December 18, 1995
The Man has decided that I shall be called Buster. That was not my name before I came to live with him. But since I cannot remember what my old name was, the change does not matter. The Man says my old name made me sound like a hairdresser who is engaged to a second-division soccer player.
I think he is a bit of a snob. So am I. At least we have something in common. I think he must have been sorry he was rude about second-division soccer players’ wives. For he began to invent other reasons for calling me Buster. The Man says that I have an optimistic walk, cheerful ears and that my bottom sways with self-confidence. I have no idea what he is talking about. I doubt if even humans understand that sort of nonsense. Still, if he sticks to the one name, I shall soon begin to come when he calls.
December 20, 1995
The food is the same as I got at the dogs” home. It looks like little balls of sawdust. The Man is not allowed to give me my food. When She measures it out, She uses a little glass with lines round the side to make sure I don’t get too much. She does not measure out his food. He keeps saying how good it is for me to eat healthy food—usually whilst he is eating chocolate cookies.
I do get “treats.” They are dog biscuits, desiccated pigs” ears, rolled, knotted and braided pieces of hide.
There are special rituals associated with treats. Before I get a pig’s ear, I have to bark very loudly and he has to say, “For God’s sake quieten down.” I get a biscuit after he tells me, “Sit!… Down!” or “Stay!” or “Wait!” My part in the strange ceremony—which takes place about once every ten minutes—is just doing what he suggests. The ceremony is called “training.” He read about it in a book he got from the pet shop.
The book explained that dogs are pack animals and that he must not let me be leader. He must never allow me to go first through a door, always move me out of the way rather than step over me, and stop me from jumping on his knee unless he invites me up. The book says it is easy for the Man to stop me being leader of the pack if only he makes clear who is boss.
I don’t want him to make clear who is boss. It is bad enough when he just tries. For example, he totally misunderstands chewing. It is a sign of affection from one pack member to another. But as soon as my molars touch his hand he shouts, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Nobody likes teeth except Buster.” I like them a lot. If we had the relationship of equals, he would chew me back.
December 25, 1995
There were so many people in the house that nobody took any interest in me. They all said, “Hello, Buster,” and one or two patted me on the head. But for most of the time, I was completely ignored—except when I tried to share the potato crisps and little cookies that everybody else was eating. The Man said that if I howled I would go outside into the hall.
I did not mean to spill the whole plate of little sausages all over the floor. All I wanted to do was have a close smell of them and, perhaps, steal one when nobody was looking. The Man said he was less worried about the marks on the carpet than the risk of me choking on one of the little sticks that were stuck into the sausages. But he still put me outside in the hall. I howled.
After I had howled for about an hour, they all moved into the dining room. Hundreds of dishes of food had to be carried from the kitchen along the hall so, naturally enough, I was able to barge my way in when the door was left open. The Man said I would lie quietly on his feet and promised not to feed me bits of turkey. Because he kept his promise, I did not lie quietly at his feet. When I stood on my hind legs and put my feet on the table, I was put out into the hall again. I howled.
When the people went home, they all said how much they had enjoyed themselves. I did not enjoy myself. Before they left, I was shut in the kitchen, with all the food locked away in cupboards. When he took me for my late-night walk, the Man said, “Buster, you’re stupid. If you’d been well behaved, you could have stayed with me and picked up the food I dropped.” I don’t know if he meant dropped by mistake or dropped specially for me.
I shall think about what he said. Being well behaved when there are strange people about is more difficult than he thinks—especially if some of them smell of fear. But I would have liked the dropped food. Today was a Christmas. If there is another one next week, I shall try to make the best of it.
Decem
ber 29, 1995
I think the Man must be a slow learner. She picked up the idea in a couple of weeks. Calm voice. Authoritative tone. Firm information. Whenever he rebukes me, he either shouts or giggles, which is very bad. Sometimes he does both at the same time, which is even worse. Then, even if I haven’t quite done what he tells me, he gives me a hug. If we go on in this way I shall never learn how to behave.
I am beginning to learn about the Man. I don’t think he is leader of our pack. I am not even sure he wants to be. He certainly does not control the food and seems very happy to move out of the way when somebody wants to walk past. He also lets other people go out the door first—all signs that he has given up the battle for supremacy. I think he wants to be a friend rather than leader. That is good. It means he talks to me a lot. But it will cause trouble if, one day, he changes his mind and wants to be leader after all.
January 1, 1996—Hassop, Derbyshire
I ran away last night, or perhaps it was early this morning. I cannot be sure because it was dark and I was half asleep when I did it.
We were in a hotel—which is a big house with dozens of rooms. But we only had one. So I was supposed to sleep on the floor next to the bed with only a blanket out of the Man’s car to lie on. I didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, but the Man said, “We must do better next time. It will be our fault if he jumps on the bed during the night.” I would have jumped on the bed whatever they had brought for me to sleep on.
After my early-evening walk, I was left on my own for hours. I slept in the middle of the bed until they came back, but when I woke up I could not remember where I was. I could, however, hear two distant voices calling me. So I sidestepped the Man, who stood in the open door, and ran out onto the landing. By then I was properly awake and I picked up the scent of the dogs whose call I had heard in the bedroom. It led me down the stairs, along the hall into the dining room (past people in paper hats) and out into the kitchen. I barely needed to look up. The sound and the smell planned my exact route.
Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man Page 1
