This morning, in the park, I was bitten on the ear by Oscar, the mad Italian retriever. I blame the Man. He calls Oscar “Benito” and told me that as he was Italian I had nothing to be afraid of, because he would run away at the first sight of danger. That was not true, and I have a tear in my ear to prove it.
The Man took me to the vet straight away where, naturally enough, a needle was stuck in me. This time, I did not go to sleep. The vet said the needle was a precaution in case Oscar’s teeth were dirty and my ear turned septic and fell off, and that the tear in my ear would heal very quickly but I might have an unsightly scar unless he put a stitch in my ear. The Man—who I suspect is jealous of my good looks—said, “If it’s just cosmetic, we won’t bother.” I shall go through life scarred.
All this has made me even more doubtful about Passports for Pets. Until this morning I thought dogs ought to be allowed to travel abroad without being locked up in kennels when they came back to England. Now I am not so sure. I think it’s right that English dogs should be allowed to go abroad. But I do not think that foreign dogs—particularly Italians—should be allowed to come here. If we are not careful, we will be swamped.
February 19, 1997—Derbyshire
I have decided to limit pointless barking to the house, where the Man is amused by it whether or not he says, “Shut up, Buster. You’re driving me mad.” Out on walks I now bark with more discrimination—as befits an increasingly sophisticated dog.
When we pass dogs on the road, in fields or when I am pulling the Man up one of the nearby hills, I never bark first. If I can get near enough, I jump at them, but it is always a silent jump. But if they start to bark, I always bark more loudly and for much longer. That shows who is boss.
I still bark when he stops to talk to people. But not for long. He has now learnt to scratch my head whilst in conversation. Although I am impatient to move on, the head-scratching always keeps me quiet.
Back in London we often walk past the home of a big, fawn-colored boxer called Jake. He always barks at us in a very loud voice and runs along the inside of his garden fence so that he can keep barking at close quarters. I never reply. He is guarding his territory just as I guard mine, and must be respected for the thorough way in which he does the job.
My reason for not replying to Jake is quite different from the reasons for which I ignore the little yelping Scottie in Station Road up here in Derbyshire. The little Scottie lives with a cat so, no matter how much he yelps, I do not condescend to notice him.
February 23, 1997—London
We were joined in the park this morning by two retrievers we had not seen before. Their names are Ben and Novak. Their owner, who was very grim and serious, is called Norman or Lord Tebbit. The two dogs are better trained than any other dogs in the park. They may be better trained than any other dogs in the world. Norman or Lord Tebbit makes them sit side by side on the path. Then he throws a ball and tells Ben to fetch it. Novak sits absolutely still until Ben returns. Then it is Novak’s turn to get the ball and Ben’s turn to sit still. None of the other dogs—the regulars who run about together each morning— dared go anywhere near them. Like our owners, we just watched in terror and amazement.
When Norman or Lord Tebbit had taken Ben and Novak home, some of the humans said that they were glad that their dogs did not behave like that. I did not believe them. I think they were envious. Although I would hate to be so well behaved, I liked Norman or Lord Tebbit. I thought he was very sensible. He asked the Man, “Is this Buster?” When the Man admitted it, Norman or Lord Tebbit said, “I think he’s had a worse press than he deserves. He ought to hire a publicist to improve his image.”
March 1, 1997
Another visit to Paws U Like by him and another profound embarrassment for me. This morning he went to buy a bag of sawdust balls and came home with Lumineck, a fluorescent collar which glows yellowy-white in the dark. I am to wear it when we go out at night so as to be clearly visible. On our evening walks we never leave the pavement. So the collar can only be protection against cars which mount the curb and threaten to cut me down as I sniff my way along the footpath. But he still put it on before we went out at eleven o’clock.
Sometimes I think he has no idea of the traumas he causes me. The blood of tundra wolves runs through my veins. My instinct is to stalk my prey, silent and unseen. How can I live out my destiny if I have an illuminated neck? He thinks it all a great joke. “Dog collar,” he cried, giggling. “It looks like a proper dog collar. The Reverend Doctor Buster.” I thought of nights in Siberia, baying at the moon and waiting to rip out the throat of an unwary traveller.
March 14, 1997—Sheffield
I wonder what tea tastes like. I only drink water and had never thought of it until the Man’s mother wanted to give me some this afternoon. But I have thought of it ever since she poured some into her saucer this afternoon. “Buster doesn’t drink tea,” the Man said. “Don’t you listen to the vet?” she demanded. “The vet recommends a saucer of tea every day.” The Man did not look up from his newspaper. “Mine doesn’t,” he said. I could see that his mother was getting angry, and I lay down behind the sofa. But the Man didn’t seem to notice her change of mood. “You go to Mr Newton, don’t you?” his mother asked. She seemed to know the answer already. “Mr Newton is the one who told me that dogs should have a saucer of tea every day. If he told me, why didn’t he tell you? He said it was good for dogs” coats.”
“His coat looks all right to me,” the Man said, with total justification. Indeed, most people regard my coat as absolutely magnificent. One young lady asked if I had highlights put in at the hairdresser’s. Even his mother could not claim that it was capable of improvement, so she said, “Don’t be silly I didn’t mean him. I meant dogs in general. I give Sally a saucer every afternoon.” It hasn’t done much for her coat. She looks like a moth-eaten goat. I do not need tea, but I would still like to know what it tastes like.
March 22, 1997—London
When I bit the Man today, it caused me far more pain than it caused him. His hand didn’t even bleed, but I was deeply wounded by what the incident revealed about his understanding of my character. After more than a year of close friendship, he still seems confused about the difference between dogs and people.
As usual, in the early evening, I was sleeping on the sofa, occasionally stretching my back legs just for the pleasure of hearing him say, “Don’t push, Buster.” Then I began to dream. I dream a lot, though I seldom remember what I dream about. The Man pretends he knows. I am often woken up by his shouting, “Look, Buster’s chasing rabbits in his sleep. Look, you can see him running after them.” I take no notice and doze off again as soon as he has quietened down.
But this evening I had a bad dream. A pointer had stolen my rawhide bone and a greyhound was sleeping in my bed. Twenty giant cats were chasing me down Victoria Street and a ghostly goose was whispering in my ear that it would haunt me for ever. Naturally, I whimpered a bit. Who wouldn’t in the circumstances?
Stupidly, the Man leant down and, patting me on the head, said something he hoped would be encouraging. Although the patting had disturbed me, I was still half asleep. But I think he said, “You’re all right, Buster. You’re home with me.” At the time it was just the noise that went with the blow to my head. Thanks to my reflexes—which are like a coiled spring—I had turned and snapped before I was fully conscious. I had never heard the Man howl before.
As soon as he had made sure he was not bleeding and he would not have to go to the vet, the Man said he forgave me. All She said is that it proved that I could never sleep on the bottom of the bed. I did not know the idea had ever been discussed. Now I think about it, I am very much in favor.
March 17, 1997
My communications crisis has deepened. I have developed a huge repertoire of endearing noises. Each one of them has a precise meaning—time to go out, I’m dying of hunger, I can’t get the rubber bone from behind the desk and there ought to be room on the so
fa for me. I do not expect him to hear high-pitched whistles. For he is no more a sheepdog than I am and I can’t even hear his cell phone ring if it’s in his inside pocket. He ought to take the trouble to understand what I say to him. But whatever question I ask or suggestion I make, he has two stock responses. He either accuses me of whining or denounces me for attention-seeking.
To make things worse, I am having increasing difficulty in understanding some words he says. When I barked at a man in the street this afternoon, he said, “Buster, I sometimes find your idiosyncrasies incomprehensible.” When I almost strangled myself on my collar by leaping into the air in the hope of catching a pigeon, he told me, “I actually find something attractive in your mindless indomitability.” Back home, he described our walk as “moderately satisfactory” and, turning to me, added, “But you will have to develop a little tolerance towards strangers. They aren’t all intent on grievous bodily harm.” What worries me is that, when he finds out I am only a dog, he will stop loving me.
April 4, 1997
I am only surprised that it has not happened before. This morning, as we were walking down Victoria Street, a young woman with obviously dyed hair turned round and said to the Man, “Who do you think you’re talking to?” He was talking to me. But I am so low on the ground that some people do not see me. Sometimes I feel like the invisible man.
It was what the Man had said to me that made the young lady particularly keen to know if he was talking to her. As I recall, it went something like this, “For God’s sake, walk properly. If you wobble about all over the pavement, nobody can get past.” The Man answered the young lady’s question by pointing at me. She went red, but said nothing.
The incident illustrates an important point. Being rude to me is regarded as funny If he said the same things to other people—“Sit!… Lie down!… You’ll go out!”—he would be in terrible trouble.
April 16, 1997
He has been away He says he has been to Pakistan, but I do not believe him. If he had been abroad, he would still be in quarantine. Although he tells me lies, I miss him when he is away Without him at home, there is no one for me to dominate.
I was on my evening walk when he got home. As soon as I got in, I could see him sitting in the study at the far end of the hall, and She let me off the lead straight away. I ran to greet him in a spirit of joyous welcome. Although I say it myself, I am a great jumper—four feet up in the air and ten feet along from a standing start. With the advantage of a run-up, I am like a ballistic missile with fur and teeth. The need for physical contact was so strong that I could not waste a minute before I started to chew his hand. I longed for the old, familiar voice saying, “For God’s sake stop it, Buster, or you’ll go out.” So I took off from just outside the study door.
If the Man had not lost his nerve, everything would have been fine. But he held up his arm and tried to duck behind it. Instead of my landing neatly on his knee—as I certainly would have done, had he not panicked—I bounced off his hand and ended in a heap on the floor. A less agile dog would have been badly injured. Fortunately, I managed to twist in the air, so at least I landed right side up. But as I flew through the air, my paw caught him a glancing blow on the cheek.
I have drawn blood for the first time in a year, and the damage was done—by mistake—to my best friend in all the world. I think I am being corrupted by civilization.
April 24, 1997—Derbyshire
Derbyshire is full of strange animals. Some of them are very small. When it rains very hard and water runs down the hill, little green things jump up and down. I caught one in mid-air. It was cold and slimy. I spat it out straight away. Little brown animals stick themselves to the wall at the bottom of the rockery. They smell quite nice, but when I got one in my mouth, it was hard on one side and wet and slimy on the other. I began to think all the little animals in Derbyshire are wet and slimy somewhere. But they are not. There are small things that fly about which are hard to catch, but I was clever enough to get one. It buzzed about inside my mouth, so I spat that out too.
Coming home last night, I smelt an animal next to the water trough where the Man tries to make me wash my feet when it is muddy in the fields. I went to get a closer sniff and it pricked me on the nose. Every time I pushed it to make it stop, it pricked me some more. I think it must have had prickles sticking out all over. The prickles made my nose bleed. The Man was very unsympathetic. He said, “You were trying to roll that hedgehog over so you could kill it.” That was not true. But it was a good idea. I shall know what to do next time.
April 28, 1997—London
Exile from St James’s Park has proved less of a punishment than I anticipated. I have not been there for a year and do not miss it. I miss the geese, but I would not mind never seeing a flamingo or a pelican ever again. Flamingos are a sickly pink color and pelicans have buckets where their beaks ought to be. I can’t bear anything unnatural. Birds should be brown or black with, at very most, a touch of red or silver on breast or wing. And they should have something sharp at the front of their faces. I now regret that I got a goose instead of one of those weirdoes.
But the great thing about Green Park is the effect it has on the Man. Now that he has convinced himself I won’t commit suicide by throwing myself under a bus in Piccadilly, he is far more relaxed, and, since I reflect his moods, I am too. In St James’s I was weighed down with the responsibility of convincing him that the walk would not end in catastrophe. So, apart from the one goose, I behaved very well. In fact, in general I behaved better than he did. It was not me who said to the park keeper, “If you try to kick my dog again, I shall kick you and I won’t miss. He was only trying to look in your wheelbarrow.”
In Green Park I run about in a way which I pride myself is both uninhibited and responsible—never going too far away to hear his call, and eventually responding to it. Self-respect requires that I take my time. He didn’t want a Sealyham or a dachshund, so he must not expect me to behave like one. And since he boasts to his friends that I am “a dog of character,” he ought to rejoice when I prove him right in Green Park.
There is, however, one disadvantage to our new route. We approach the park across the front of Buckingham Palace, where the Queen lives. The Queen must be one of the Man’s best friends, because we always have to be on our very best behavior when we go past her house. If I so much as pause by the wall or railings, he yanks the lead so hard that my collar almost takes my head off. Then he winds the lead so tightly round his hand that I have to walk close up against him. He says, “Come on, Buster! Light-infantry pace.” He always says that when he is agitated. All I can think of is how to avoid him standing on my paws, but he goes on about what will happen if I try to bite anyone.
This morning, even though we went past Buckingham Palace very early, the road outside was crowded with people. I think they were Japanese. They usually are. They are pack animals like dogs. They hunt in groups, each one led by a lady who holds an umbrella up in the air, whether it is raining or not. They always look at us as if they have never before seen a man and dog fastened together by a piece of string. This morning, one of them pointed his camera at me and made a big flash. When I barked the Man told me, “They eat dogs in Japan. If you do that again, I shall let them take you home for breakfast.” I did not believe he would do it. But just to think of such a thing reveals a distressingly vicious streak in his character.
May 2, 1997
For the first time in my life I have been left alone all night. They both went out as soon as I had had my last walk and did not come back again until after breakfast time today. They thought that I did not realize they had gone. Stupidly they forgot about my fifth sense—since they don’t have much of it themselves. Perhaps I ought to have been pleased that for once I could sleep free from the smell of humans. But I felt very lonely.
When he came back, the Man was very tired but happy. He kept saying having Norman Tebbit there all night made victory all the sweeter. Can this be the Norman or
Lord Tebbit that we met in the park? And, wherever they spent the night, did Norman or Lord Tebbit take his dogs with him? The Man kept saying, “We have waited for this for eighteen years.” I shan’t mind if it’s another eighteen before they leave me on my own again.
May 6, 1997
The Man says Green Park has gone to my head. All the running with Silky, Sandy, Cliquot and Lenny is supposed to use up my energy. But on the way home today I had some left over. So when I saw a young lady dancing along in a way which made her arms wave about, I danced along beside her. I was still on the short lead, so it wasn’t easy, but I managed to get a little friendly nip at her sleeve.
“Look what your dog’s done,” she said to the Man. “It’s torn my sleeve.” It was not a very big tear. “Has he done that?” the Man asked, as if he hadn’t seen me do it. “It’s only fun, you know. It’s his way of being friendly” That was true. But the young lady did not seem to think it made up for having her sleeve torn. “I will pay for it,” the Man said and she gave us her address. She turned out to be a neighbor, but I do not think the Man wants to see her again.
The Man talked about the young lady most of the way home. “1 don’t think she’s the sort who would go to the police. But you never know. Better give her enough to keep her happy.” Then he said to me, “More training for you, my lad. We’ll have to have Steve round again. More discipline.” Then he groaned. I think he dislikes discipline more than I do.
PART V
Realization
Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man Page 7
