We had a dog named Buster. He was a beautiful dog of questionable breed, but we loved him. Isn’t that the way it usually is? I remember him well. He didn’t start out being my dog. When Patty and Don Irwin moved in our middle house, Patty got a puppy and named him Buster. He was supposed to be a little dog, not the monster he grew into. Again, isn’t that the way it usually is?

As time went on, Buster would come to my door and scratch to be let in. After all, I fed better than Patty did. Ham, cold meat and bologna tasted better than plain old dry dog food. Buster would trot in right up to the refrigerator and sit there waiting for me to open it. I never disappointed him. There was always something in there he would like.

It turned out that I spoiled him rotten. Dogs always saw me as one of the pack, I guess, not someone to be obeyed. I never could get a dog to mind. They knew I was a soft touch. That would have been all right except Buster liked only me. If a stranger (to him) came to visit, Buster would be trying to get behind him in a menacing way. It didn’t matter if it was an adult or a child. Buster didn’t want them in his house.

We rented out the log cabin. Buster would have them holed up in there guarding all the exits. They were trapped in the house. That caused us more than a little trouble. Buster became just plain mean with someone he didn’t know. It would be his undoing.

Patty and Don moved out after six months. They couldn’t take Buster with them. It didn’t matter. Buster didn’t want to go anyway. He would scratch at the door and I would let him in. He walked over to the fireplace and stretched out, soaking up the warmth. Buster was home.

Feeding Buster got to be a chore. Buster liked pancakes, not plain but with butter. The picture shows him studying the plate of cut up pancakes, waiting for syrup. Yes, I cut them up for him. He wouldn’t eat them until I poured syrup over them. Buster liked his pancakes with butter AND syrup.

There was the time I was trying to get Buster to come into the house. He sat out there and wouldn’t budge an inch. I tried tempting him to cross the threshold with ham, then hot dogs and finally sliced bologna. It was still a “no go.” I called for Anne to help me. She opened the door and walked in past Buster sitting out there. Then she turned around and said, “Oh Buster, did you want to come in?” Buster stood up and delicately trotted in and laid down in front of the fireplace. Buster obeyed Anne, but not me.

There was the time in the middle of the night when something brushed my closed eyes as I slept. It was Buster. He would walk up to my bed and lick my eyelid. That usually meant he wanted to go out. Usually, but this time I went to the bathroom first, then to the door. Buster hadn’t followed me. I went back to my bedroom to see where he was. Surprise! Surprise! Buster was laying full length on my bed with his head on my pillow. He hadn’t wanted to go outside at all. He wanted my bed. Buster would have to go.