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

by Roy Hattersley

  There was a horrible description of roundworm (Toxocara canis), an advertisement for something called easy-to-use pooper-scoopers, and a picture of a Fido machine. A man was leading it along on the end of a wire. Owning a Fido machine cannot be half as much fun as having a real dog. You can take it for a walk, but you can’t stroke or pat it and it can’t jump on your knee or lick your face. And the Fido machine cannot bark. The leaflet says that barking is important. “One of the pleasures of owning a dog is hearing its welcoming bark when you return home.” Quite right.

  The leaflet spoilt everything by saying that “a barking dog can cause friction between neighbors” and suggesting that dog owners go to obedience classes. I think the Man would be very boring if he was obedient all the time. If he always walked simply by my side without ever making a noise or jumping about, life would not be much fun for me. He would be just like a cocker spaniel—all floppy ears and dopey expression. I think men need to show a bit of character.

  The dog warden told the Man that, for my own sake, I ought to join Pettrac National Pet Registration scheme. When he asked her what I would have to do, she told him, “Have a chip implanted under the skin at the back of his neck.” The idea makes no sense to me. When we are out late at night and I find a chip in the road, I am not allowed to eat it. I cannot imagine enjoying having one buried under my fur even if, as the dog warden promised, it would mean that I could be “held on the national computer.” I get held far too much anyway. But the Man is a sucker for fancy ideas. I fear that I shall soon be implanted.

  Anyway, we are safe from the dog warden for a while. She is going to have a baby. After she had gone, the Man said, “At least, Buster, nobody will be able to blame you for that.”

  November 20, 1996

  According to the newspapers, the Man was in court this morning, charged with behavior “contrary to Regulations 3(6)(b) of the Royal and other parks and gardens regulations 1977.” In fact, he wasn’t really in court at all. A solicitor went for him and read out the letter the Man had written. It took him almost a whole day to write and, in the end, he decided to tell the truth about bending down to collect my excrement and relaxing his grip on the long lead. He really has no excuse for letting me behave like that. As I have made clear more than once, the price of Buster is eternal vigilance.

  After about fifty telephone calls with the solicitor, he decided that the letter should include what he calls a joke. “In fact, Buster was never off the lead. Unfortunately I was.” As soon as he had mailed the letter he started to worry about the joke costing him an extra £100. The rest of the letter was very pious. “I am naturally most disturbed by the news that he killed the goose and very much regret its death.”

  As we might have expected, it was the Evening Standard which was waiting for us when we went out for our morning walk, and their photographer took more pictures of me. The Man said he was going to stand by me. The reporter followed us all the way to Green Park. I was careful to sit very still when we had to wait for the traffic lights to change. When we got to Buckingham Palace, a policeman said, “I see the reptiles have been let out today.” I thought he meant me, but the Man knew better. He asked the policeman what would happen if he strangled the reporter and the policeman replied, “I would shake you by the hand.” Despite this encouragement, the Man did not strangle the reporter, who went home when we got to the muddy part of Green Park.

  The solicitor telephoned at lunchtime to say that the Man had been fined £25 for not keeping me on a lead and £50 for letting me kill the goose. He would also have to pay £200 costs. The Man did not seem to mind. He was much more upset to learn that “the place was full of journalists.”

  November 21, 1996

  This morning began last night. The Man would not go to bed until today’s papers were on sale near Victoria Railroad Station, and I had to stay awake and go with him. A Rastafarian offered to buy me for £50. The Man said, “Not for five thousand,” and the Rastafarian said, “He is not worth five thousand.” I had liked him until then.

  All the papers had stories about me. The Man says I must be careful not to be spoilt by fame, and he has refused to allow me to go on television. I heard him say on the telephone, “All it needs is an exploding lightbulb or a cameraman with a sandwich and all hell will be let loose.”

  The newspaper stories all contain terrible puns—up in front of the beak, fowl play and goose being cooked. The Man said, “You come out of it better than I do. You’re only an assassin. I’m a journalist.” I don’t think that I come out of it badly at all.

  November 27, 1996

  The Man has joined Passports for Pets. It is an organization that wants me to go on holiday to France. In fact I can already go on holiday to most places. But I am not allowed back.

  All the French dogs are mad and foam at the mouth and run around France biting people. The people they bite die. The dogs they bite die as well, but not until they have bitten people and killed them. I cannot go to France because, if I did, a French dog would bite me and, when I came back, I would bite Englishmen and kill them.

  Passports for Pets wants to stop all this happening, but I am not sure how they will do it. I am not even sure that I want to go to France.

  December 3, 1996—Derbyshire

  I think I have fallen in love again. This morning, when we went on our usual walk across the fields to the old railway line, a golden-haired retriever bounced up to me, and for a moment I forgot about the sheep that I was hoping to turn into mutton. I fear my emotions were embarrassingly obvious, for the Man said, in his most coy voice, “What about Silky? Have you forgotten her?” Of course I’ve forgotten her. I can’t remember much for more than twenty-four hours—though, if we ever meet again, all the old feelings will come flooding back.

  The golden-haired retriever is called Flora and her hair—which is more like copper than gold—shines in the sun. She lives in a family of six other dogs. All of them were out for a walk with her, but she came straight over to have a sniff at me. I sniffed back at once. The Man said, “Better come away, Buster.” But Flora’s owner said, “No problem at the moment. But I’m counting off the days.” I’m counting off the days too. We will be back in Derbyshire next week.

  December 10, 1996

  Flora is lost to me for ever. This morning, on our way to the old railway line, we saw half a dozen dogs coming towards us across the fields and the Man said, “Look, Buster. It’s Flora.” It wasn’t. And it would have been much better if I had not been reminded about her.

  The Man asked Flora’s owner where she was. I do not know what the answer was but the Man said—with remarkable lack of sensitivity—“Well that’s that Buster. When you next see Flora she’ll be an old married lady with puppies to look after. She’s gone away to spend the week with another thoroughbred golden-haired retriever.” My only consolation is that I have a memory span of only twenty-four hours.

  December 23, 1996

  The Man went mad this morning. I hope that it is only temporary. Usually I get into trouble if I go within a yard of his bathroom door. But just before lunchtime, he dragged me inside. I had barely begun to shake a towel to death when he picked me up and dropped me into the bath. It was half full of warm water.

  Not content with it lapping against my stomach, he splashed it all over me. Then he got a bottle from a shelf and poured something sticky on my back. “Don’t worry, Buster,” he said. “It’s specially for dogs. If it goes into your eyes, it won’t hurt.” Until then I had not thought about it going into my eyes, so I had not worried. I started to worry when he told me not to.

  The sticky stuff out of the bottle bubbled all over me and he splashed me again until it was all washed off. That is when I knew he was mad. Why else would he put the sticky stuff on me one minute and wash it off the next?

  The Man let the water out of the bath whilst I was still inside. Then he rubbed me with the towel I had tried to shake to death. That was the only nice part of the whole thing. He did not get me
dry, so I shook my coat. Then we were both wet all over. The Man retaliated by insulting me. “At least you don’t smell any more,” he said. Everybody knows I am very clean. It said so on the advertisement when the dogs” home put me up for sale.

  December 24, 1996

  Everybody is behaving very strangely. The Man has brought a tree into the house and planted it in the hall. The tree has very strange fruit and flowers. The fruit rattles when I shake the tree and the flowers glow when the Man switches the lights on. I am not allowed to go anywhere near the tree.

  There is another tree—only much bigger—on the grass opposite our house. As soon as it got dark, the flowers lit up and thousands of people arrived to stand round it and make a noise. Most of them made the same noise but, with my expert dog ears, I could tell that one or two were making a different noise from the rest. I sat in the window between the curtains and the glass and barked. I did not bark very convincingly. There were too many people for one dog to frighten away.

  PART IV

  Tolerance

  In which Buster meets—in diverse circumstances—a variety of other animals and struggles, with different degrees of success, to regard them as friends.

  January 1, 1997—Derbyshire

  The Man got up late this morning and said that he always regretted it afterwards. I think he meant that he regretted keeping me waiting. We did not go on our long walk until the afternoon. In the fields on the way to Baslow, there was still a lot of snow on the ground. I like snow. It tickles my stomach. The Man says it makes me more stupid than ever.

  On the way home I was let off the lead when She said that I “needed to stretch my legs.” The Man said, “We’ll regret it,” but, as usual, She got her way I stretched my legs by running back to where the cows were—three fields away. I did not harm them, but herded them into a friendly little group by running round them in ever-decreasing circles. The Man said, “Look at Buster, he’s evolved from hunting to animal husbandry,” and She said, “Don’t be stupid. Catch him.”

  Since, unlike me, the Man always does what She tells him, he tried to catch me and fell down in the snow several times. The farmer, who came up in a tractor, said, “You’re just making him more excited. He’s doing no harm. Just wait till he gets tired.” It took a long time for me to get tired. When I did and went back to the Man, he forgot which lead he should use, and I had to walk home so close to him that he stood on my paws twice. He kept saying, “I blame you for that.” I don’t think he was speaking to me.

  January 3, 1997

  I can’t honestly say I like being left alone in Derbyshire, but it is better than being left alone in London. In Derbyshire, I am left to run up and down the stairs. So I can sit on the window seat on the front landing and growl at everything that comes past. I can also push open one of the bedroom doors and lie on the bed. The Man thinks he fastens it shut before he goes out, but the latch doesn’t work.

  Running up and down stairs and barking is immensely tiring work, so I normally doze off after an hour or two. However, it is absolutely essential that I wake before the Man opens the front door, otherwise he suspects that I have not been properly vigilant and mocks me. He has begun to creep down the path—and sometimes even goes round to the back and comes in through the kitchen. If I am not there the moment he gets inside the house, he shouts, “Very slow, Buster. Very slow.” He knows I hate being laughed at. He expects me to slink away in shame. Of course I just jump at him in the usual way.

  January 11, 1997

  There was an unfortunate misunderstanding on our railway journey from London this afternoon. Usually I quite enjoy the journey to Derbyshire. I lie, with my head on the Man’s foot, under the table and allow the rhythm of the swaying engine gently to rock me to sleep. For most of the time, he keeps his fingers in my collar, ready to reassure me that all is well if anybody to whom I may take exception passes.

  All went well as far as Leicester. He bought a large Kit Kat from the trolley service and, as usual, all I got was a bottle of water. Just north of Market Harborough, I fell asleep and dreamed, not of rabbits and rats as usual, but of a man and a dog who enjoyed an ideal relationship. The man drank the water and the dog had the large Kit Kat.

  I blame the ticket collector for what happened next. At first he did a very good job—taking great care not to stand on my tail when he punched the Man’s ticket. Then he got chatty with the Man. First he talked about the Labour Party, then about Sheffield Wednesday soccer club. The Man only likes talking to me during train journeys. But he said “Yes” and “No” a lot. Before the ticket collector left, he leant over and tried to shake the Man’s hand. Before you judge me, put yourself in my position.

  I was lying half asleep on the floor of a swaying railway carriage and my view of what was going on above was obscured by the table. All I saw was a quick movement of feet and an arm moving swiftly towards the Man. From where I lay, it was impossible to distinguish between a handshake and a blow. I only did my duty.

  Fortunately, the damage was done to the trousers, not the leg and, at the time, it seemed likely that it could be easily remedied. The tear, admittedly from hip to ankle, ran down where the seam already fastened two pieces of cloth together. So it could have been worse. But the Man still offered to pay for a new pair.

  The ticket collector was very good about it, rightly saying that it was my job to look after the Man. He added that he would not like to meet me in a dark alleyway. Quite right. I took that as a compliment. For the next mile or two the Man held my collar a bit too tight. But everything seemed all right until the head ticket collector came round and said, “My colleague told me of what happened. The dog attacked him.” By “the dog,” he meant me.

  The Man, very reasonably I thought, said, “He only caught his trousers.” But the head ticket collector replied, “It might have been his leg.” He went on to give a lecture about what a danger I could be to passing children and elderly ladies who could not spring back. The Man does not like lectures, but he listened politely until the head ticket collector told him he should buy a muzzle. Then he pointed to the hated halti, which was still round my head just below my eye and above my mouth. “That stops him biting,” the Man said. The head ticket collector told him, “It doesn’t seem to be working.” The Man looked very upset. “It’s a muzzle for you, Buster,” he said. “Paws U Like as soon as we get back to London.”

  January 14, 1997—London

  We have bought a patent muzzle. It is called the Baskerville and it is made of plastic. He normally says that only real leather is good enough for a dog of my quality, but he justified buying a plastic Baskerville with the pretence that he found the name funny. Apparently, it reminded him of a basket—which it looks like when you hold it up by the straps—a wicker vest and a hound that lived on Dartmoor and tore out the throats of innocent passersby. “The problem,” he said, “is that when you wear it, people will think you’re very fierce.” I want people to think I am very fierce. I am not as fierce as I was—which is why I like the Baskerville giving the wrong impression.

  January 21, 1997

  I would much rather wear the Baskerville than the halti. I hardly know when the Baskerville is on. I can open my mouth inside it and the Man can push tiny cat biscuits (called Kitbits) through the plastic bars. But the best thing about it is the impression it creates. The Man was right to say it would frighten people. I only wear it on railway trains. But he has to put it on before we get to the station, so I walk the full length of the platform looking as if I am too vicious to be trusted. One lady asked, in awe, if I was a rottweiler. Her question seemed to make the Man angry. He told her my name is Hannibal Lector, which is not true. There is much to be said for a muzzle. But I wish it wasn’t made of plastic. I deserve something with more class.

  January 29, 1997

  This morning in the park I made an understandable but terribly embarrassing mistake. A person, standing with his feet absolutely still, was moving the rest of himself about in a st
range way First he held his arms in the air and made them sway like branches. Then he fluttered his fingers like leaves. The Man now claims that the person was doing something called “Tai Chi” to guarantee his tranquillity during the day But, at the time of the incident, I think we were both equally confused. I, at least, admit my error. I thought the person was a tree. I am sure it is possible to be tranquil even with wet shoes.

  February 7, 1997

  I have begun pointless barking. I have enjoyed pointless running and pointless jumping for some time, but pointless barking is a new enthusiasm. My barking is now as undiscriminating as Lizzie Bennett’s coughs. Because he was worried about the neighbors complaining, the Man looked up “barking” in his dog book. It appeared immediately after “bad breath.”

  Barking, the book said, is employed to intimidate, welcome or to call up reinforcements. Where I live you could wear your vocal chords down to their roots and reinforcements would not arrive. There is something that yaps next-door-but-one and a miniature Scots terrier twenty yards up the road. I doubt if either of them can hear me and if they could they are not the sort of dog which you expect to have much esprit de corps. Even if they came, they would not be much use. There were bigger rats in the garden where I was born.

  February 14, 1997