Buster Brown

The carry-over miracle of the 20th century is, as the that airline loves remind us, that we are now free to roam about the country. This development truly is a wonder, but the only problem is that once you roam away from where you were (and some would argue, where you're supposed to be), a lot of your roaming works in the service of making up for lost time, and you become very proficient at the language of goodbye.

Even though I just got back from Colorado a few weeks ago, last weekend I flew home to... what? Long story short, a perfect shit storm of things were happening back home, that I mostly don't want to talk about, and even though going home meant mostly just sitting on the couch and behaving as if I live there, that's what I needed to do. So I did it.

What, in hind sight, turned out to be the most important of those things, is that my ten year-old dog, Buster, harbored some sort of ridiculous tumor, which seemed, before I arrived, like it was aiming to finish him off by the end of the week.

Is it marvelously idiotic to spend 16 hours in transit to spend a weekend with your dog, in case he dies and you never see him again?

Maybe. But this morning Buster passed away.

When I was home, he seemed to be improving (the miracle of doggy prednisone, another gift of the 20th century). He still made us feed with a spoon, which seemed more out of attitude than infirmity. My grandfather, the Vet, told us to indulge Buster's whims, which meant that I played literally 756 games of Flippy Flopper over the weekend, most of them in the house (a strict no-no). People who are dying of cancer don't have the energy to play Flippy Flopper, do they?

This is why my vocabulary fails.

All I know is that Buster used to get into the shower with me when he was a puppy, when he was a fat black sausage with little sausage legs. That he was terrible about chasing deer every time we went for a hike. That the way he wagged his tail was a language, which included wagging in a complete circle, like a propeller. That he was the only dog I've ever had who would actually fetch the ball and bring it back... we called it his egg. He loved chasing sticks into ponds, and would snort and paddle all the way back to the land, dropping the stick out of reach but coming right next to you to shake dry. He had a terrible habit of resting his chin on your knee and raising one eyebrow in order to obtain any of his heart's desires. He also liked to sit outside the bathroom door the minute someone closed it, and I'm convinced he thought it was a secret portal. His ears were soft as blankets.

He smelled amazing.

He was a great dog, plain and simple.



"Candy looked a long time at Slim to try to find some reversal. And Slim gave him none. At last, Candy said softly and hopelessly, "Awright--take 'im." He did not look down at the dog at all. He lay back on his bunk and crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. [...] For a moment he continued to stare at the ceiling. Then he rolled slowly over and faced the wall and lay silent."
-Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck