Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man

by Roy Hattersley

  I was not allowed into his mother’s house until he had been inside and hidden all Sally’s food. Although the Man’s mother is a vegetarian, she says it would be wrong to force her prejudices on a dog, so she buys chicken to give to Sally. I think his mother is right, but he thinks her behavior is very funny. He believes in forcing his prejudices on people—particularly me. He shouts, “Wait!… Quiet!… Sit down!” all the time.

  His mother sat in a big armchair with two cushions behind her, and Sally on the cushions. If Sally interrupted her by whining, his mother elbowed her off the cushion before continuing her stories about other people’s cruelty to dogs. From the front it looked like Long John Silver and his parrot, not the Man’s mother and the ugliest bitch you’ve ever seen. I sat next to the little table with the tea tray on it and looked winning by putting my head on one side. It did the trick at once. “Can I give him a piece of cake?” his mother asked. “No,” he said. “Buster doesn’t eat cake and he doesn’t eat at the table.”

  “It’s not at the table,” his mother said. “And cake is good for him.” Then they began to argue about what is good for me. I was terribly embarrassed. But Sally—no doubt used to that sort of thing—seemed not to mind. “I had dogs before you were born,” the Man’s mother said. “And killed them with rich food,” he replied. He was making an unkind reference to Magnus—a Yorkshire terrier with a pedigree and long name—who died young of a heart attack. The Man says it was the cake that killed him. I put it down to the inbreeding.

  February 28, 1996—Derbyshire

  We have come to inspect a house which he is having renovated. There are workmen everywhere and the Man says they are not even trying to get the job done on time. I am sure he is right. As soon as I try to help, they stop working—especially if they are bending down.

  Outside the house there are fields and in the fields there are animals I have never seen before, called sheep and cows. Although the cows are bigger than the sheep, they are just as stupid. When I walk towards them, they run away. If they just stood there, I’d have a sniff and wander on. But when they turn their backs and run, the wolf in me takes over and I think that I am chasing my dinner through the primeval forest. The Man said, “This is going to be a problem.” But I think it will be more of a problem for the cows and sheep than for me.

  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.

  PART II

  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.

  March 1, 1996—London

  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) PRECIOUSCARGO. 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.

  March 4, 1996

  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.

  March 10, 1996

  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.

  March 12, 1996

  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.

  March 14, 1996

  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.

  March 17, 1996

  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.

  March 20, 1996

  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.

  March 23, 1996

  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.

  April 6, 1996

  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?

  April 9, 1996

  The newspapers found out about the goose. The Man thinks a gardener was given a biscuit for telling them. This morning there were photographers waiting for us when we went for our walk. We sat on a park bench whilst they took our picture. I was the star, gazing up at him like Man’s Best Friend and licking his face. The Evening Standard had a billboard, “Park Murder Suspect: First Pictures.”

  Most of the reports were lies. Some said I had bitten the goose’s head off. Others said it lay eviscerated on the path. The Man explained that the newspapers had to invent better stories than the truth—a little nip isn’t news, but horrible mutilation is. And I’m supposed to be the one with the wolf inside me!

  I have become very famous. This morning people stopped us in the street and told him not to thrash me or have me
shot. Dog owners sent bones through the post. There were cartoons in the Guardian and the Daily Telegraph. A dachshund called Lottie telephoned to propose marriage. He wrote back to say I was too young. People we did not know made jokes. The Man got bored with the jokes very quickly—particularly “Has he killed a goose today?” and “Still catching your supper, is he?” I loved them. We met the police officer in the street and he said he was sure we would hear no more about the dead goose. He was wrong.

  April 12, 1996

  I am getting letters from all over the country. Some are from humans pretending to be dogs and some are from humans admitting to be humans. The letters which are signed by dogs all say that I was right and the goose was wrong. The letters which are signed by humans all tell the Man that he must be kind to me and not have me shot.

  The Man is going to reply to everyone. He has written one letter for the dogs and another for the humans and has spent all afternoon trying to decide who should get which letter. As soon as he had posted the first batch, he realized he had made a terrible mistake. Lulu is a House of Commons secretary not a Pekinese. I think Countess Beatrice de Villiers of Compton Basset is probably a pedigree German shepherd dog and not an English aristocrat.