Archive for August, 2009

Buster


A number of people have asked me about Buster. They worry that the fact that I haven’t written about him lately means he is no longer with us.

He is, indeed, still with us.

I don’t write about him, in part, because, these days, I don’t have cute stories about him that will bring a smile to your face.

Buster is struggling, which means that I’m struggling, too.

We don’t know exactly how old Buster is. Fifteen years ago in April, my friend Mike Callaghan found Buster by the side of a road in Stokes County. When I took Buster to the vet, the vet thought Buster was perhaps 12 to 18 months old.

So, when we celebrated our 15th anniversay on April 2, that meant Buster was at least 16 and, perhaps, well on his way to 17. He is certainly well on his way to 17 now.

Before Buster got sick, he weighed a steady 50 pounds for many years. So, for a dog his size, he is ancient.

A few years ago, his kidneys started failing. At the time, the vet said that he was old enough that something else might go before his kidneys.

He has continued to motor along.

But the list of ailments is increasing. Arthritis is a problem.

His hearing is mostly gone. For years, he would hear me drive up and be waiting for me at the door when I opened it. No longer.

I may walk to the back of the house and find him on his bed sound asleep. One fringe benefit of not hearing much is that he no longer hears the thunder that once scared him.

His vision has been deteriorating for a while. He used to be fine lounging in the front yard while I visited next door on Mr. Whitfield’s porch. Now he gets agitated after a few minutes. Mr. Whitfield and I decided that it may partly be because he can’t see me over there.

Lately, the vision seems to be getting worse. At night, we used to take a last walk around behind the house before bed. Now, he won’t go back there at night. I think it’s because it’s so dark under the oak tree.

Agitation has become a major issue. Sometimes, he frets the whole night. When the fretting started, I thought it might be his kidneys. But the vet said they were still getting by. That and other symptoms led the vet to conclude that it was some form of dementia.

We tried this medication. We tried that medication. Nothing helped until Proxac.
Although it helps, it doesn’t eliminate the problem. Sometimes, when Sparkle Girl, Doobins and I can’t figure out what to do to help him settle down, we get agitated, too.

Buster still has fun. He has a hearty appetite. He likes his walk. And, before the nasty heat arrived, he liked to stretch out in the front yard.

I wish I could get inside his head for a minute and know whether, on balance, the good outweighs the bad and whether he still wants to be here.

A while back, Mr. Whitfield said to me that he would tell me when it’s time and that, when that day comes, he will go with us to the vet’s.

I hope that, when that day comes, it will be crystal clear that it’s the right thing to do.

Even better would be not having to make such a decision.

For many years, Buster would bark at airplane vapor trails. (He doesn’t see them any more.)

Mr. Whitfield would joke that Buster came to Earth on an alien space ship that accidentally left him behind when it took off and that Buster barked at vapor trails because he was trying to catch the attention of his buddies on the space ship.

Sometimes, I imagine being out with Buster when a space ship lands in front us. The door opens, a friendly alien (who, conveniently, speaks English) steps out and says, “Time to go home, Bud.”

I thank Buster for being such a good friend for all these years, and I watch him disappear into the sky.