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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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