In which Buster begins to rediscover life’s harsh reality and, briefly, feels grateful for his good fortune, before relapsing into some of his old bad ways.
May 8, 1997—London
When the Man got home last night, he took his coat off and went into one of those strange routines which make me doubt his sanity Tired though I was, I tried to gratify his whim. The usual ritual involves an oddly shaped piece of red rubber which he calls a bone—though it does not resemble any bone I have ever chewed. For reasons I cannot imagine, he enjoys throwing it to the far end of the hall. Crying “Fetch it!” and “Quickly! Quickly!” he then waves in the direction of the point on the carpet where the “bone” landed.
Usually I humor him by behaving like a retriever—which I am certainly not. But then he throws the “bone” down the hall again and expects me to go through the whole routine once more. Being human, he is profoundly cynical. So he assumes that I pander to his strange tastes because I get a biscuit as a reward for running about with a foul-tasting piece of rubber in my mouth. In fact, it is my contribution to the Care in the Community organization.
The “bone” ritual being over, I am expected to do what, in his vulgar way, he describes as “give him a cuddle” on the sofa. This requires me to sit next to him and, when he pretends not to be looking, suddenly lick his face. Actually, as long as I am not too tired, I do not mind it very much. Face-licking is natural to me. It is how young wolves tell their parents they are hungry and invite them to regurgitate some unwanted food. And I have not quite forgotten my primitive roots. But he never regurgitates unwanted food. So I slide down onto his knee and sleep as soundly as I can with him fidgeting about with the television remote control. Through my dreams I can hear him talking about devotion.
May 10, 1997
I thought at first that Steve from Blue Cross was my friend, because he said that when I did something right I should be rewarded with a biscuit. Now I am not so sure. This afternoon, he brought the Man a book. There was a drawing of a dog on the cover and, in big letters, the words DOG-TRAINING FOLDER. Beneath the drawing of the dog it said, “This folder belongs to… .” The Man wrote “Buster.” Steve said, “You’ll have to treat it seriously or we’ll get nowhere.” Pages one and two were about old stuff—the rules which I resent but accept with dignity and don’t need to be rubbed in. “The family eat their food first… . The family clear away after eating… . Your dog is then fed.” The quality of the advice can be judged from rule three. “No food to be given to your dog by anyone while they are eating.” If Blue Cross can’t get the grammar right, their views on dog-training are unlikely to amount to much. But I am reconciled to mealtime tyranny. I was not, however, prepared for section two. It was called “Ignore the Dog” and the title page was illustrated with a drawing of a neglected puppy and a woman who was too fat to be an advertisement for mealtime discipline.
The next pages said, “No touching. No looking. No talking”—all the things that make a dog’s life worthwhile. “When your dog demands attention in any way from anybody, they [same mistake again] must completely ignore it. If your dog keeps demanding, turn away, stand up or leave the room.” There was then a list of all the things I most like to do. “Using the paw. Nudging with its muzzle. Staring at people. Barking, whimpering, whining. Stealing items and running off with them. Body-slamming people. Mouthing, nipping, biting. Putting its head on laps.” Body-slamming is my favorite. I am not supposed to do any of them.
It then said, “This seems harsh, cruel and can be an emotional strain, but the reward of a better-behaved dog is worth the effort.” Worth it for whom? Certainly not for me.
May 17, 1997
We have been in the park every morning this week and Silky was nowhere to be seen. Nobody—not Lenny, Cliquot or Sandy—knows what has happened to her. They think she is all right because her owner is a nice man and will look after her. But we are all afraid she has moved to another town.
The Man says I shall forget her quite quickly, as my memory is very bad. That is, in a way, true. I do not think of Silky when we are at home. But when we are in the park, I wonder why there is nobody to jump on me. I am a creature of habit. One of my habits used to be running headlong at Silky and knocking her over. Cliquot and Lenny are too low down to knock over, and Sandy spends most of his time in the air, jumping after his stupid rubber ring.
May 24, 1997—Derbyshire
In the afternoon we went into the village of Bakewell to get more sawdust balls—“for dogs with a tendency to put on weight.” I was not allowed into the pet shop. When the Man came out, instead of complaining about how much I cost to keep, as I had expected, he said, “Buster, you’ll never believe what I’ve just seen. There is a dog in there which is almost as tall as Barley and even heavier.” He looked so surprised that I believed him.
Barley is the Irish wolfhound in our village. He is so big that he can lean his elbows on a six-foot wall. As far as I know he has never jumped over it. I can jump over any wall I can lean my elbows on. Barley is, no doubt, too big to be athletic. That is why I would not like to be in his collar.
I would not like to be the big dog at Bakewell either. If what the Man says is true, he sits in a little room of his own and never moves. This is not because the pet-shop owner is unkind. It is because the dog, which is called Tchaikovsky, is only a puppy (fourteen months old) and his legs are not strong enough to bear his weight. He weighs fourteen and a half stones, and in a year, will weigh sixteen. By then, his legs will be strong enough for him to go on walks.
Tchaikovsky is a Saint Bernard, which means he has bloodshot eyes and several double chins. When the pet-shop owner came out to the car with a sack of sawdust balls, the Man asked him, “When Tchaikovsky grows up, will he have a brandy barrel hanging from his neck?” The pet-shop owner said, “Everybody asks that,” and the Man stopped smiling.
Realization June 10, 1997—London
We have changed the route by which we go to the park in the mornings. We still go past the offices of the Transport and General Workers” Union and he still says when I stop near the wall, “Go on, Buster. You do that to them, like they did it to me in 1976, during the Winter of Discontent.” But we do not turn left between the two pubs with the tubs of flowers outside their doors. The Man has read in the Evening Standard diary that the pub owners are angry with me, and he does not want to meet them face to face.
On warm nights the pub owners’ customers stand outside the pubs on the pavement. As well as making it difficult for people to walk past, they waste bits of perfectly good food by pushing it into the soil in the flower tubs. Naturally, when I walk past, I want to dig it up and eat it. Unfortunately, it is impossible to dig up the food without digging up the flowers. “I don’t know how you do it so quickly,” the Man said to me. He sounded really proud of me.
June 18, 1997
I have discovered a new way to frighten the Man. It is called mad running. Mad running should not be confused with pointless running, at which I have been adept for some time. Mad running is more frenzied. Mad running is only possible when he and I are joined together by the long lead. This is how I do it. I walk demurely for some time. Then I suddenly set off at full speed and keep going until (this is a joke!) I am at the end of my tether. Then, without slowing down, I run round him in circles. This requires him a) quickly to change the lead from hand to hand, b) to rotate until he is dizzy, or c) to allow the lead to wind round him like cotton round a bobbin.
Whichever he chooses, he is pretty confused for a while. Before he has time to recover, I turn in from the circle, charge at him as fast as I can go, and leap in the air just before we collide. Sometimes I hit him, sometimes I don’t. At first, he thought I had gone crazy. He pulled on the lead until he caught me and then began to calm me down by rubbing behind my ears and scratching my tummy Sometimes he sinks to his knees on the wet grass so as to calm me better. Calming always included giving me a biscuit. I was sorry when he decided that it wasn’t rab
ies after all.
Really, he ought to be flattered. I am treating him like another dog, which is what he pretends to like. If he had my powers of observation, he would have noticed that mad running and crazy jumping are exactly what I did in the park when Silky was there.
But mad running only frightens him. Mad running is not possible without getting tangled in the lead. As you turn in from the circle it goes slack, and if you have four legs to worry about, one of them is certain to get caught. He has seen it happen a hundred times. But he still thinks I shall break a leg and is even more frightened than he was when he thought I had periodic rabies. “Sit! Sit!” he shouts, in a way which is more likely to excite than to calm me. Then he unwraps me. And, of course, I get a biscuit. I told you mad running was fun.
July 1, 1997
I always knew that no good would come of the railings around Westminster School playing fields in Vincent Square. As I could have told them, the grass has begun to grow over the concrete foundations—nature has always been more difficult to hold back than humans realize. However, until it really begins to spread across the path, I am put in constant danger.
I have never denied that I like a little grass from time to time—purely for medicinal purposes. But, unfortunately, grass is addictive. I begin to nibble at the end of the blade and I cannot stop myself until I am right down to the root. Before I realize what has happened, my head is through the railings and stuck. My natural instinct is to rotate my head sideways and come out sideways. But that only makes the problem worse. Naturally I panic.
The Man then says, in an infuriatingly calm way, “Nothing to worry about, Buster,” and tries to turn me the right way round so that I can escape. It always feels as if he is trying to screw my head off, and I panic even more. I get out in the end, but not without badly bruised ears and a feeling of panic that puts me off the purpose of my lunchtime walk. I cannot wait for July when, with any luck, the grass will be right across the pavement again.
Realization July 12, 1997—The Lake District
Against my better judgment, we are spending a week end in the village of Troutbeck at the Staffordshire Bull Terrier Rescue Annual Walk and Charity Auction. He is here to help. I would be more impressed about his concern for dogs” welfare if he had not forgotten my food. This morning, I was only saved from corn flakes by the owner of our hotel, who sold him a bag of the inferior mixture he gives to his Spaniel bitch. It tastes far worse than what I get at home. I doubt if this part of the trip will be mentioned in the article he is writing for The Times.
We went on “the walk.” Actually we didn’t. We joined the walkers about a mile along the route and led them up a little hill. As soon as the photographer had taken our picture, we walked back down again. He then went for lunch in a pub. I would have been perfectly happy sleeping on the backseat of the car, but he has read an article (always disastrous) which claimed that dogs in cars die of heat exhaustion. So I had to be under the table among the cigarette ends, with nothing to look forward to except the hope of him spilling his chips. Fortunately, he is a messy eater, so something dropped down about every five minutes. I hate cheese and onion.
The bull terriers were uglier than I had imagined. I knew that they would look pretty grotesque. But as well as having muzzles squashed back into their skulls (as if they had all run head first into a brick wall), they were all bow-legged. I can’t believe that my mother was like that. Dad, a handsome Alsatian, wouldn’t have looked at her twice—even if she’d been dressed up in the fancy gear they were selling at this reunion.
Half the dogs had spikes in their collars. Some even had silver medallions dangling round their necks. That sort of kit was on sale at the charity auction. But he doesn’t like that sort of thing. I fancied a Stars “n” Bars kerchief tied under my neck to make a rebel’s bandanna. But he didn’t like that either. So it’s back to the old flea collar.
Some of the dogs on the walk were what I shall call disadvantaged. One was disadvantaged by having only three legs. Another was a stroke victim and dragged one paw He wore a shoe to prevent the pads being rubbed raw on the ground. There was a blind bitch with a bell hanging round her neck. When you think about it, the bell made no sense. Her problem was knowing when other dogs were approaching, not other dogs knowing that she was about. Humans are sometimes very stupid.
The other dogs made exhibitions of themselves at the charity auction by just sitting there, on knees or at feet, without making a sound. I became star of the afternoon by giving a loud yawn just as the Man began to speak. He paid twice as much as it was worth for a giant bag of dog biscuits. Just as I was looking forward to the bag bursting in the car on the way home, he gave it back to be auctioned again. One way and another, it was a thoroughly bad weekend.
July 24, 1997—Derbyshire
When we got to Derbyshire today there was a new gate across the path that joins the two little gardens. It was clear enough that it had been put there to keep me out of the best garden—the one from which I can hear and smell the Labrador in the kennel. So from now on I shall not be able either to tear a hole in the hedge or to howl to him through the branches.
I have retaliated by destroying the top lawn in the other garden by doing what the Man calls “hand-brake turns.” I found out how to do it when he gave me a ball to chase, but it can be done with a leaf or stick or even my own tail. The trick is to chase whatever you are chasing so hard that you run past it. Then you push out your front legs to stop yourself going too far. As well as stopping, you swerve round so you are facing whatever you are chasing. When I first did it, I thought that the Man would say, “Clever Buster.” But he only said, “Look at the bloody skid marks in the grass. He’s doing hand-brake turns.” That is when I decided to go on doing them in retaliation for the gate.
When he was not about, I had a jump at the gate and, because I am such a good jumper, I got my front paws on the top. With practice, I think that I shall get over, though it may scrape my stomach a bit. It would be better all round if the gate were left open or removed altogether. Then I could resume my attempts to rescue the prisoner next door, and there would be no ugly wounds on either my stomach or the top lawn.
August 10, 1997
Apparently, there are four spots under my chin. I have not seen them myself, but whilst we were larking about on the sofa, the Man noticed them and went very serious. Spots are very dangerous—at least for dogs. He often has them and takes absolutely no notice. But the four that have grown on me caused him great concern.
The Man held my jaws together and pushed my head backwards so that he could get a better look. Having your jaws held together and your head pushed back is much worse than having spots. After staring at them for about five minutes, he went and got a tube of cream and smeared it all over the underside of my bottom jaw. That was very frustrating. The underside of my bottom jaw is one of the few parts of my body I cannot reach with my tongue.
After the cream had been on my chin for about ten minutes, I forgot all about it and went to have a friendly word with the Man. I think he had forgotten the cream too. He rubbed behind my ears in a way which makes me put my head on his knee. He was wearing a good suit and I think it was the sight of all the cream on his trouser leg that made him so angry with me. “Look, Buster,” he said, “if you keep rubbing it off, I’ll have to take you to the vet.” The Man knows I do not like going to the vet because, whenever I do, I get a needle stuck in me. It was an unfair thing to say. As he knew very well, I was not rubbing the cream off. Like him, I had forgotten about it.
If the Man does take me to the vet, I cannot see much being done to cure my spots. I went to the vet last year with a spot on my bottom. That is when I was so frightened that I stood in the corner with my face towards the wall and tried to bite the vet when he wanted to lift me onto his table. I got so near to biting him that the vet wouldn’t look at my bottom until the Man put a muzzle on me. The Man took me back after he had bought the Baskerville.
After the M
an had persuaded me to wear the Baskerville, the vet looked at my bottom and said that the spot didn’t matter. If I go to see him with my spots, he will have to examine the other end. Even though I have a muzzle—that is really what the Baskerville is, whatever the Man says—I won’t be able to wear it while he looks at my chin. So I shall be able to bite him if I want to—which I probably will. I hope that either the cream cures the spots or the Man decides not to take them so seriously.
August 12, 1997—Scotland
We came to Edinburgh so that the Man could talk about his book. He talked about it in a big tent. He did not want me to hear what he said, but She persuaded him to let me sit with her at the back of the tent. It was very hot and I got very sleepy. When I began to snore, everybody laughed.
Today was supposed to be the start of our holiday. We have sailed to Mull. The voyage was horrific. When we got on the boat the Man was told I had to be left in the car or kept outside on the deck. The Man said we’d both stay in the car. But he was told I had to stay on my own. All the motor cars were to be left unlocked, and, while I could be trusted not to steal anything, the Man could not.
The Man said we would stand on deck. It rained very hard all the way and we got soaked. What made it worse was that the Man could see into the saloon and the cabins through the portholes. Everybody inside was dry and warm. They were also drinking tea.
When we got into port, all the warm and dry people in the cabins rushed ashore first. Some of them had dogs on leads. The Man said, “Never mind, Buster. The dogs were not supposed to be inside the saloons and the cabins. We did what was right.” Doing what is right makes no sense to me if you also get wet.
Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man Page 8
