Free Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man by Roy Hattersley Page A

“needed to stretch my legs.” The Man said, “We’ll regret it,”
     but, as usual, She got her way I stretched my legs by running back to where the cows were—three fields away. I did not harm
     them, butherded them into a friendly little group by running round them in ever-decreasing circles. The Man said, “Look at Buster,
     he’s evolved from hunting to animal husbandry,” and She said, “Don’t be stupid. Catch him.”
    Since, unlike me, the Man always does what She tells him, he tried to catch me and fell down in the snow several times. The
     farmer, who came up in a tractor, said, “You’re just making him more excited. He’s doing no harm. Just wait till he gets tired.”
     It took a long time for me to get tired. When I did and went back to the Man, he forgot which lead he should use, and I had
     to walk home so close to him that he stood on my paws twice. He kept saying, “I blame you for that.” I don’t think he was
     speaking to me.
January 3, 1997
    I can’t honestly say I like being left alone in Derbyshire, but it is better than being left alone in London. In Derbyshire,
     I am left to run up and down the stairs. So I can sit on the window seat on the front landing and growl at everything that
     comes past. I can also pushopen one of the bedroom doors and lie on the bed. The Man thinks he fastens it shut before he goes out, but the latch doesn’t
     work.
    Running up and down stairs and barking is immensely tiring work, so I normally doze off after an hour or two. However, it
     is absolutely essential that I wake before the Man opens the front door, otherwise he suspects that I have not been properly
     vigilant and mocks me. He has begun to creep down the path—and sometimes even goes round to the back and comes in through
     the kitchen. If I am not there the moment he gets inside the house, he shouts, “Very slow, Buster. Very slow.” He knows I
     hate being laughed at. He expects me to slink away in shame. Of course I just jump at him in the usual way.
January 11, 1997
    There was an unfortunate misunderstanding on our railway journey from London this afternoon. Usually I quite enjoy the journey
     to Derbyshire. I lie, with my head on the Man’s foot, under the table and allow the rhythm of the swaying engine gently to
     rock me tosleep. For most of the time, he keeps his fingers in my collar, ready to reassure me that all is well if anybody to whom
     I may take exception passes.
    All went well as far as Leicester. He bought a large Kit Kat from the trolley service and, as usual, all I got was a bottle
     of water. Just north of Market Harborough, I fell asleep and dreamed, not of rabbits and rats as usual, but of a man and a
     dog who enjoyed an ideal relationship. The man drank the water and the dog had the large Kit Kat.
    I blame the ticket collector for what happened next. At first he did a very good job—taking great care not to stand on my
     tail when he punched the Man’s ticket. Then he got chatty with the Man. First he talked about the Labour Party, then about
     Sheffield Wednesday soccer club. The Man only likes talking to me during train journeys. But he said “Yes” and “No” a lot.
     Before the ticket collector left, he leant over and tried to shake the Man’s hand. Before you judge me, put yourself in my
     position.
    I was lying half asleep on the floor of a swaying railway carriage and my view of what was going on above was obscured by
     the table. All I saw was a quick movement of feet and an arm moving swiftly towardsthe Man. From where I lay, it was impossible to distinguish between a handshake and a blow. I only did my duty.
    Fortunately, the damage was done to the trousers, not the leg and, at the time, it seemed likely that it could be easily remedied.
     The tear, admittedly from hip to ankle, ran down where the seam already fastened two pieces of cloth together. So it could
     have been worse. But the Man still offered to pay for a new pair.
    The ticket