I had to bring Buster, our Golden Retriever, to be put to sleep today. I have a challenge for anyone who still thinks that strong men don’t cry: Stand and watch as your only daughter kneels next to her best friend, stroking his fur and saying goodbye to him and try not to shed a tear or, more aptly, a river of tears. Think back to the day that, as a young girl, she picked out her new little buddy, carefully singling him out from his brothers and sisters to be her companion for the rest of his life. Pause and remember all the times that she came home from a basketball game after not playing her best or being let down by a boyfriend who really wasn’t worthy of her in the first place and how she would go to Buster to throw her arms around him and have him lick her face. And realize that tonight he can’t be there to comfort her and understand that you are a very inadequate substitute.
It seemed like Buster was doomed from the start. As he grew, we noticed that he seemed to have trouble getting up from a lying position. Tests and x-rays revealed hip displacia, a condition common in his breed stemming from over-breeding. We listened carefully as the vet explained the various procedures along with their risks and costs. We decided on the middle-of-the road approach of having some groin muscles cut. The benefit of this relatively minor surgery was that it would free him from the pain of having ill-formed joints rubbing together. The tradeoff was that the stress it would put on the rest of his system would probably shorten his life span to seven or eight years. If Buster could sense that he had a physical limitation, he decided to just laugh it off and push on. He would chase almost anything you threw with reckless abandon, crashing through brush, over banks, into the backyard shed, and, much to my wife’s chagrin and his peril, through a multitude of backyard flowerbeds.
Anyone who says that dogs don’t have personalities are either cynics or just too damn busy to pay attention. Buster was just pleased to be who he was. It didn’t bother him that he looked somewhat splay-legged when he walked or ran; he was just going to make the most he could out of life. Tracy usually had a certain route that she took when she walked him around the neighborhood. When they got several hundred feet from the house, Buster would turn around and look up at her. At this point, she would roll up his leash and put it in his mouth, still attached to his collar. He would pick his head up high and proudly walk himself home. When he got to the front yard, he’d stand there wagging his tail, so full of himself that he was smart enough to do such an awesome stunt. My wife swears that he smiled when he did something smart or mischievous. He just loved to go racing off the back deck to clear the yard of squirrels or the neighbor’s cat when it erroneously forgot where its boundary lines were. When his job was finished, he’d look at the house with that smile, waiting for someone to praise him for his chivalry.
Buster enjoyed all the seasons, but I think if he had to pick just one, it would be winter. Shoveling snow was always an adventure with him around. He’d try to catch every shovelful on his back, pretending that you were trying to hit him with it. The exertion of trying to make his way through deep snow with bad hips took its toll on him, but he’d only rest a short time before he was at it again, plowing his nose through almost every square foot of the yard.
I come from a family that had a wide variety of dogs and, as a homeowner of my own, I’ve had several more. Buster was, hands down, the smartest dog I’ve ever had. Teaching him almost anything was a breeze. One-word commands were all he needed. If he didn’t learn something, it was apparently just not important enough to him.
Tonight my daughter asked me if I believe that dogs have souls. I answered that I don’t think they do. But I do believe that Buster was allowed to come into our lives to remind us of some very important truths. In a world so full of cynicism, Buster was constantly cheerful. People break vows and go back on their word, but Buster was always faithful to his family. Too often, love is short-lived and governed by things like prenuptual agreements and the like. Buster made us realize that real love is unconditional, unadulterated, and eternal.
I’m a busy person. Some of my time is taken up with things over which I don’t have much control. Some of it is taken up with self-imposed chores and commitments. Buster used to annoy me to no end when I’d be working on a project in the yard, trying to get something done. He’d come up near me a drop a ball on the ground, waiting for me to pick it up and heave it for him. If I threw it, he’d bring it back. If I threw it a hundred times, he’d bring it back and drop it a hundred and one times. If I ignored him, he’d keep nudging it closer and closer until I picked it up; sometimes he had to nudge right up onto my foot. The last time we played this game was just three short weeks ago. And as I think about him tonight, I realize that he taught me one of the most important lessons of all: sometimes you just have to stop everything and chase a ball around the yard, because life’s just too damn short.
