April 14, 1996
A solicitor has written to us about the Dangerous Dogs Act. The letter says that one day a policeman will come round and say, “Buster is a pit bull terrier type.” He will then take me away and shoot me. The solicitor sent a picture of a pit bull terrier which looks nothing like me but the Man keeps holding it up and making me stand still so that he can write down all the differences to tell the policeman when he comes round with his gun.
He has also measured me, because pit bull terriers are twenty inches from the ground to their shoulder. I am only nineteen. He keeps asking if I am likely to grow. I hope this does not mean he will try to stunt my growth by cutting down on biscuits.
He says, “If the worst comes to the worst, we will go and live in Ireland to escape from the police.” He has promised we will go by boat so that I do not have to be in a box with the luggage. When he talks about going to Ireland, She always says, “Don’t be stupid.” What I can’t work out is why it is wrong to kill a goose, but all right to shoot a dog.
April 17, 1996
Whatever happens later in the day, we are now inseparable during the morning walk. I am never let off the lead. We walk to the park connected by the short lead. The short lead is attached to me by a noose in which I strangle myself by trying to walk faster than he is able to go. The Man says, “Walk properly,” and tells people that I will soon learn. I doubt it.
Notices have been nailed to St James’s Park railings. They say, “To protect the wildlife, dogs must be on leads.” The Man is very angry He says they were nailed there after the goose attacked me. When he told me about them, I knew at once that they were a waste of public money. Dogs cannot read. Nor can they fasten themselves to leads. Or let themselves off. I am now on the long lead for all the time we spend in St James’s Park. It is not as bad as you might think.
As soon as we get into the park, the Man puts on the long lead, clipping it to my collar and—just to make sure that I don’t escape—also fastening it round my neck. This takes a long time because he is very clumsy and has a lot of things to hold in his hands, including the short lead on which we came to the park. Getting the short lead off is very difficult because he usually puts the long lead on top, rather than underneath. When the long lead is on and the short lead off, the fun really begins.
The long lead expands. I can run twenty yards before it starts to tug at my windpipe. When I run back towards him, the string disappears into a little box which is attached to the handle.
I run off as quickly as I can, accelerating with every step. Suddenly the expanding lead will expand no more. The immediate choking sensation is really rather exciting, but I have usually recovered from the blackout in time to hear the Man shout from twenty feet behind me. He knows how the expanding lead works. He bought it. But he is never ready for the moment when it is played out to its full length. As a result, his shoulder is almost pulled out of its socket.
I would still rather run about without a lead at all. That goose has a lot to answer for. Because I am bound to him, he is bound to me and we are both prisoners. I doubt if the goose would have understood. It did not look much of a philosopher.
April 24, 1996
Another totally boring day The Man says he has a book to finish, and therefore there is no wrestling on the sofa, no chasing the rubber bone down the hall, and certainly no leaping on his knee. The Man sits at what he calls a desk—a big wooden cube with a hole in one side into which he puts his feet and legs. He likes me to sit inside the hole with my chin on his feet. This enables him to tell people how affectionate I am. Unfortunately I can only remain affectionate for about twenty minutes at a time. Then I try to jump on his knee. But because I am in the hole inside the wooden cube, I always hit my head on the wood. If he was affectionate towards me, he would say, “Poor old Buster,” and give me a biscuit. But he always says, “Don’t be a nuisance, Buster. I am trying to work.”
May 4, 1996
I was left alone between half past seven and nine o’clock. It is the third time this week. I did not enjoy living at the dogs” home, but at least I was never left to worry if I had been abandoned for ever. When they went out, the only light they left on was in the kitchen, and all the other doors were closed. At first I thought that I had three choices of entertainment, walking about in the dark, lying in my bed or drinking water. Then I noticed that a corner of the front hall carpet was loose.
At first, I only meant to give it a little tug. But it came loose from its tacks with a very satisfying noise. So I kept tugging until half the carpet had come away from the floor. There was another hairy sort of carpet underneath and, although it was full of dust and made me sneeze, I pulled that up as well.
Although I do not claim to be an authority on these matters, I thought what I found under the two carpets looked far nicer than either of the carpets themselves. It was not floorboard, but tiles with shiny patterns on them. I could become a really first-class interior designer.
May 11, 1996—South Derbyshire
Staying in hotels is usually great fun. When the Man takes my bed it is not as much fun as when he leaves it at home. With the bed, once I go to sleep, it is not very different from being at home. But when he does not take it, I sleep on his bedspread, folded up and put on the floor in front of the window. When I sleep on the folded bedspread I always wake up at least twice and jump on him. That is the best part, especially when he wakes up with a shout.
She always shouts and pushes me off. But the Man says, “You can’t blame him. He doesn’t like sleeping on the bedspread. It’s my fault for forgetting his bed.” I wonder how long it will take before he understands that sleeping in the bed is boring. In the morning—even though I have woken him up twice—all he worries about is the bedspread. Before they bring his tea, he always says, “Quick, Bus, let’s straighten out the bedspread before they find out.”
Staying in the hotel in Ashford was even greater fun than usual. The owner told the Man, “There’s a feral cat as big as a sheep upstairs,” and said it would kill me if it caught me. The Man asked how a cat could be feral if it lived in a hotel and the hotel owner said it used to be feral but had been tamed. I wanted to ask how tame it was, if it wanted to kill me.
I was asleep when the hotel owner came with the tea, but I quickly woke up. Because he walked in without knocking, there was no chance to tie me up. To me one cat is very like another—feral or not. So off I went up the stairs. “My God!” the hotel, owner said. “The cat’s up there.”
The hotel owner just stood there, but the Man ran up the stairs after me. He does not run up stairs very fast. Before he got halfway up, I was back on the top step with the famous feral cat in my mouth. It was not as big as a sheep. The Man began to hit me with the lead. He also shouted, “Drop it.” I did not drop it. He tried to prize my mouth open like he does when I pick up old bits of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I did not open my mouth. He then started to strangle me by twisting my collar. When I could not breathe I opened my mouth. Unfortunately the feral cat fell out. The man who owns the hotel picked it up, wrapped it in a towel and took it to the vet. Afterwards the Man told me, “I don’t mind the vet’s bill. I’m just sorry for the cat. You wouldn’t understand that.” He was right.
May 14, 1996—London
We have been to a new park. It is called Green Park. It is not as pretty as St James’s Park and not looked after so carefully. And it is not so much fun. There are no geese or ducks. Steve went with us. Steve comes from the Blue Cross and gives me private tuition. He knows how to look after dogs. All Steve’s ideas about catching dogs are very sensible.
Steve said that when the Man catches me, he must never be angry It is no good hitting me because he will never hit me hard enough for it to hurt. I shall always think he is playing a game. The Man looked guilty and said, “I’ve never even thought of hitting him.” I am sure he has thought about it, though he has never done it. I cringed as though I am regularly beaten and let my tail droop between my legs�
��just to make him look more guilty.
Steve says I have no memory for events or incidents and that if I run away he must not shout at me when I come back. If he does, I shall think he is shouting because I have come back, not because I ran away. “The best thing to do,” Steve said, “is to give him a biscuit.” I like Steve.
June 4, 1996
I now have a lot of friends. We meet every morning in the park. One of them is called Sandy—a real mongrel, not a first cross like I am. He carries a rubber ring in his mouth wherever he goes and will not drop it even to eat a biscuit, until he gets into a special part of the park. Then his owner throws it in the air for him, and he jumps as high as he can and catches it. There is also Henry, who is a cocker spaniel. The Man says, “You can tell he is a gentleman by his name.” Henry has a piece of rope dangling from his collar so he can be caught when he runs away. That is a funny way to treat a gentleman. Lenny and Cliquot are little white Highland terriers. When the Man calls them Scotties, the ladies who own them always correct him. I cannot tell which is which. But I can always identify the lady who comes to the park with Lenny. She has a bag full of biscuits. Lenny won’t eat them, so she gives them to me.
The Man tells her to stop and says he is ashamed of the way I sit down and wait to be fed. “You’d think we don’t feed him,” he says to the other people in the park. Then he shouts to me, “Run! You’ve come here to run, not to sit down.” At other times he wants me to stop running and sit down. It is not surprising that I do not always do as I am told.
When we got to the park this morning, there was a new dog there called Silky. She was beautiful, and we ran about together away from all the other dogs. She is called Silky because she has silky hair, and we took it in turns to roll on our backs while the other one pretended to bite. I think I am in love for the first time. Silky’s owner does not carry biscuits in his pockets. If he did, I think Silky and I might develop a permanent relationship.
June 8, 1996
Today there was a real incident in the park. It was not my fault. The Man wasn’t to blame, either. However, he was not concentrating on me as carefully as he should. He kept talking to me about the soccer game that he was going to watch that afternoon—England against Holland. The price of Buster is eternal vigilance.
Even though we were in Green Park, he did not let me off the lead because there were horses trotting about on the paths. I think they should be prohibited like bicycles. Perhaps they have been, but, because bicycles take no notice, horses take no notice either.
The Man said that it was the Queen’s Official Birthday and that dozens of horses would soon gallop past the park. So we had to hurry home before they came. At one side of the park three Labradors were sniffing about on a piece of grass which was roped off. Naturally I wanted to run towards them, jump up and knock them over and roll about. He has learnt nothing from the morning when I defended myself against the goose. He dropped the lead again when he was getting the plastic bag out of his pocket. So off I ran.
When I was about a foot away from one of the Labradors, the person on the end of its lead kicked me. It did not hurt, so I had another sniff. He kicked me again and I fell over. By then the Man had caught me up. He asked, “Are you a police officer?” and started to shout, “You kicked my dog.” The police officer admitted both accusations and said, “It costs six thousand pounds to train these sniffer dogs.” The Man shouted, “Give me your number.”
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.
PART III
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.
June 11, 1996—London
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.
June 14, 1996
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.
June 21, 1996
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.”
June 22, 1996—Derbyshire
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.
Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man Page 4
