In memoriam: To Buster, the most
loyal friend one
could have: November 1993-November 2004.
By Daniel Hines
Publisher
TodaysSeniorsNetwork.com
There are many
benefits to growing older. Having to see those we love pass on is
not one of them.
And, when one of
those passings is that of a beloved friend such as Buster, it is all
the more difficult.
Buster was
actually my wife’s dog, a beautifully marked, but temperamental,
Pekinese.
But, he was more than a dog. Brooks had selected him when he was a
baby, and they shared many years before I came on the scene only
four years ago.
I had heard many
stories about Buster’s unique personality—biting and snapping at
anyone that he didn’t like, which was most of the world. They
weren’t dangerous bites, but had succeeded in limiting his contacts
with Brooks’ family and just about anyone else.
So, when I first
reached down to pet Buster and Brooks warned that he would bite me,
I didn’t know what to expect. Surprisingly, it was the start of a
beautiful friendship, as he looked at me with those large,
expressive brown eyes in a way that said, ‘Hey, you’re okay…you can
stay…’
Brooks always
said that I adopted Buster. That’s not true. He adopted me. He
soon trained me to get up from my chair in the evening to get his
treats.
When we talked to him, he tried to mimic our voices. No
barking for Buster, instead we carried on conversations.
He would jump in
the bed in the morning, rough housing me to wake me up, always
‘threatening’ a playful snap if I did not comply. He would take a
mid-afternoon nap with me, often putting his more than 20 muscular
pounds squarely on my aging chest until I would move him to my feet.
He took me for walks, stopping to sniff his favorite large rocks and
fireplugs.
And, when Brooks
and I would return home after an evening at The Muny or The Fox,
there would be Buster at the door, awaiting our return, no matter
how late is was. And he would always rub his head against our feet
to welcome us home and let us know that he had done his job to
‘protect the premises’.
He also took on
big brother responsibilities when Brooks brought home Malachi, then
a really tiny baby kitten. Buster, who had not liked cats, was now
subjected to a new regimen in which Brooks would rub the kitten
against the top of Buster’s head, while Buster grimaced.
Soon, though,
Buster found out he could learn a lot from the cat. He quickly
began to sit on the edge of the couch, looking out the window,
something that he had never done before, a definite cat behavior.
He also discovered that the cat was a pretty good playmate, and the
two of them provided hours of entertainment as the older—and
slower---Buster would waddle after Malachi who would spring over him
so quickly that often Buster would be looking one place for the cat,
who was actually standing behind him.
Despite his reputation for being
snarly--a trait we shared--Buster was the darling of Kennelwood, the
really great dog spa where he always loved to go. We had only
to say the name--"Kennnelwood"--and he was at the door waiting to
jump in the Jeep. When we arrived, he would swagger in as though he
owned the place. And when he returned, it was always with a
wonderful haircut, trimmed nails, a bandana and a new lease on life,
plus a 'report' card that always praised his sweetness and good
personality. So much for those who really didn't know the real
Buster.
It was only two
human years ago that my good friend Jim, and Buster and I celebrated
our 63rd birthdays together. Brooks had a party with our
friends in attendance. Buster, of course, had to be placed in the
basement so he wouldn’t bite anyone, but privately we made sure he
had his usual birthday dinner of a Happy Meal from McDonald’s.
Then, he became
ill. It started with a licking of infected paws, but then he
started having seizures. He would recover, and we made sure that he
had the best medical care.
Finally, though,
he just became weaker and weaker. We decided to bring him home,
hoping that he would either get better (highly unlikely) or just go
to sleep knowing that he was loved.
He tried his
best. But after a week, it became increasingly evident that he was
becoming even weaker. We decided to take him to the vet’s office,
hoping against hope that something could be done, but silently
knowing that these would be our last minutes with him.
We stayed with
Buster for the moment that the doctor injected the final shot that
was to end Buster’s suffering and to start our sorrow. As he took
his last breath, Brooks told him, “I Love You, Buster…”
Now, ‘our child
in a fur coat’, as Brooks described Buster, is gone from our home,
but his memory and presence lingers.
Surely, when the
time is right, we will move on and select another dog, not to
replace Buster, but to honor the memory of the gifts of love and
loyalty he gave to us, a memory that will comfort us in his absence.
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