There was a guinea pig in a cage in the waiting room, but we went straight into the surgery. The Man lifted me onto a table and a young lady with long red hair listened to my heartbeat down a stethoscope. The Man turned me round and held my head under his arm. A funny feeling where I sit down made me wriggle a bit, but I did not try to bite him. I never try to bite the Man. He said, “It will be all right, Buster. It’s just a way of taking your temperature.” The young lady with red hair must have realized that the Man was worried about something, for she said, “There’s really nothing to worry about. He won’t even notice, and if his character changes, it will be for the better.” I am not sure what she was talking about. It could not have been me. My character is beyond improvement.
“Can I have some painkillers?” the Man asked. “They won’t be necessary,” the young lady with long red hair said. “I’d like them all the same,” the Man told her. Then he asked, “Is there an emergency night telephone number?” and was told that wouldn’t be necessary either. But the Man repeated what he had said: “I’d like it all the same.” Then he added something very interesting. “I also want a Buster collar.”
I have several collars already. One is specially for fleas. None of them is a Buster collar, which (when the young lady got it out of the cupboard) I thought was a lampshade. “He won’t scratch,” she told him, “because he won’t know what’s happened.” The young lady then stuck a needle in me. That is when I realized that, although a woman, she was a vet.
I fell asleep. When I woke up I felt very frightened. But I had only whined for about five minutes when the young lady vet came in with my collar and lead. I barked when she tried to put it on, but not enough to stop her. The Man was waiting outside. He knelt down as soon as he saw me and rubbed behind my ears. When I licked his face, there was a salty taste as if he was crying. I did not make a fuss about it, because I did not want to embarrass him.
“You see,” the young lady vet with long red hair said, “he’s as right as rain. Doesn’t know it’s happened. Perhaps a bit woozy for an hour or so… .” The Man led me ever so slowly towards the door. I misjudged where it was and walked into the wall. It didn’t hurt.
July 3, 1996—Sheffield
This afternoon’s visit to his mother produced the best argument yet. They argue every time we go there. But today they argued without ever telling each other what they were arguing about. It all started as soon as the Man had hidden Sally’s food. We walked together into the room where his mother was sitting and, the moment he sat down, he patted his knee so that I would jump into his lap. “There you are,” he said. “You see… .”
The Man’s mother looked as if he had just bitten her. “Don’t tell me you have… .” she cried, tears filling her eyes. “You haven’t! You wouldn’t! No son of mine would!” The Man said, “It was for the best. Three vets said so. It was for his sake.” The Man sounded very nervous.
“Rubbish,” his mother shouted. “You’re just joking, aren’t you? You haven’t really… ?” Then she gave a smile which she meant him to know was not genuine. He said quickly, “I have, Mother. It’s all over and we can’t put them back, can we?” It was his turn to give a false grin. His mother told him, “Don’t be horrible.” I could not help him by joining in the fun, since I had no idea what was going on. “Does he look any different?” the Man asked. I assumed that he was trying to change the subject by talking about me. “He never even knew it had happened.”
I was trying my best to work out what it was that I did not even know had happened, when the Man’s mother got a box of chocolates from the cupboard next to her chair and began to feed them to me one by one. “Poor little chap,” she said. The Man groaned. “For God’s sake, Mum.” For a moment, he forgot all about the prohibition on blasphemy which always comes into force when we go to see his mother. He rolled me over as if he was going to tickle my stomach and said, “I tell you he’s no idea. If you don’t believe me… .”
The Man’s mother put her hands over her eyes. “You know,” she said, “I can’t stand even the thought of cruelty.” She went on to describe Sally’s suffering before she was rescued. I’d heard the description a dozen times so I rolled back onto my side and went to sleep. When I woke up she was talking about brutality to pigs.
July 16, 1996—London
The Man says he is taking the rap for me—even though I know he was to blame. He read in the paper this morning that he is to be prosecuted under the Royal Parks Act 1786 as amended 1977 in so much as he failed to keep me under control and allowed me to harm, injure or kill wildlife, to whit a greylag goose. The Crown Prosecution Service telephoned to say they were sorry that it was in the paper before he was told about it. They said the newspapers had got the details all wrong but the basic fact was correct. The Man said, “You could make up for leaking it to the newspapers by dropping the prosecution.” The Crown Prosecution Service did not reply.
July 21, 1996
When we went for our walk, a man called Charles Anson stopped us outside Buckingham Palace. He said, “There’s a famous face.” The Man thought that he meant him, but he meant me. Charles Anson used to work for the Man in the Foreign Office, but now he talks to newspapers for the Queen. So he had read about my prosecution. “I want you to know,” he said, “that your monarch is totally on your side. If it’s dog versus goose, she’s for the dog.” The Man asked, “Will she come to court as a character witness?” Charles Anson said that he seriously doubted it.
I blame Anson for giving him the idea of fighting the case. First we went to St James’s Park to look at the notices. The Man got very angry when he saw the little notices with big letters, by the edge of the pond, which he says were screwed to the railings after the goose and I had our disagreement. Unfortunately, the big notice with little writing (which is fastened to the gate) has been there for years. It says that I must be kept under control. So we can’t plead ignorance. The Man’s other idea is that the goose would have flown away if the Queen had not clipped its wings so that it would never leave Buckingham Palace. As we walked home, he talked about basing our defence on the Queen’s wanton cruelty. Then he telephoned his solicitor and decided instead to plead guilty to both offences by sending a cringing letter.
August 3, 1996
The Man asked me this morning why I am so stupid about traffic. Fortunately, he does not expect me to reply to his questions, for I did not know the answer. I ought to realize that a bus, travelling at twenty miles per hour, could squash me flat on the road. I know that if I saw a cat on the opposite pavement I would forget about the bus and get squashed. So, every time we go out, he has to stop me from walking into certain death. It is all very puzzling. I am certainly not stupid, but I act stupid on main roads. Perhaps it is because the wolf that sleeps inside me never knew about buses.
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.
August 15, 1996
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.
August 24, 1996
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.
September 1, 1996
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.”
September 13, 1996
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.
September 19, 1996
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.
October 10, 1996—Derbyshire
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.
October 21, 1996—London
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.
November 1, 1996
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.
November 13, 1996
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.
Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man Page 5
