Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man (11 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Man 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.

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.

There is a lot of water on Mull, not just round the edges, but all over. Wherever you go, there are little creeks and rivers.
The water is there because it rains all the time. In fact, all that happens on Mull is rain. And we went out in it four times
a day.

The Man didn’t seem to mind, but he had a coat and a hat to put on. I got wet all over and had to be dried in the bathroom
before I could go and lie down in the bedroom we all shared.

The owner of the hotel in which we stayed talked all the time about his gundogs, which he has trained to pick up birds after
he has shot them—the birds not
the dogs. He said his gundogs had soft mouths, whatever that may mean. I think they have soft heads. Otherwise they would
have eaten the birds instead of bringing them back to the hotel owner.

The best part of the holiday was when the Man drove our car into a ditch. It did not make much of a bump, but it made the
Man very angry and She laughed at him. When he got out of the car, he stepped into the water in the bottom of the ditch. Now
he knows how I feel when I get wet several times a day.

I have perfected a new trick. It is called teeth-snapping. This is how I do it. I am sitting next to somebody who is taking
no notice of me—feeling naturally annoyed that I am being ignored. First I pant a bit or give a little whine. When the person
turns round to see what the noise is all about, I make a sudden lunge and bring my teeth together about an inch from the person’s
face. When my teeth come together, I sound more like an alligator than a dog. Nobody likes this trick except the Man, and
me, and he is told he should not like it.
“You’ll be sorry,” She tells him, “if he takes your nose off by mistake.” That is a silly thing to say. I don’t make mistakes
like that. If I took his nose off, it would be on purpose.

We have been on a day trip to Brighton. While he did something called broadcasting, I slept on a bed in a hotel room which
had been specially booked for me. After the broadcasting and the sleep, we went down to the sea. I hate sea. You walk along
beside it and it suddenly jumps at you and wets your feet and legs.

The one good thing about the sea is the birds. There are lots of them and they fly very low. Even though I was on my long
lead, I jumped and almost caught one. When we were all alone on a deserted bit of beach, the Man let me off the lead and I
jumped at the birds for a long time. I did not catch one, but I am sure I would have done if he had not made me go with him
to the railway station.

When he put my lead back on, he gave me two biscuits and said, “Buster, you’re a marvel. You’ll never
catch one but you’ll never give up. You don’t know your own limitations. That’s what I like about you.” Sometimes I fear
he does not love me for myself. I am just the dog that he knows he can never be.

All is sadness in Green Park. Sandy died yesterday while playing with the rubber ring he always carried in his mouth. We were
in Derbyshire, so we did not see it happen. But everybody told us about it when we got to the park this morning. They all
say it will not be the same without Sandy bouncing up and down.

Apparently he was behaving just as crazily as usual, jumping high into the air to catch the rubber ring whenever his owner
threw it up for him. But after three or four jumps, instead of landing on his feet, he just collapsed into a heap. They told
us he was still alive but unconscious.

A kindly policeman took him to the vet in a motor car. The vet said Sandy had suffered a brain haemor rhage. He would not
die for days, but he would never regain consciousness and be able to go into the park to
jump for his rubber ring. His owner agreed that he should be put down straight away. “Put down” is not a very nice way to
describe it, but I am sure it was the right thing to do—even though Sandy’s owner said that he would have four hours each
day with nothing to do with his time. Dogs ought not to be kept in great pain because their sentimental owners are too self-indulgent
to face the anguish of parting. We are all entitled to die in dignity. The Euthanasia Society ought to form a canine branch.