buster

Did you say something? Sorry, I couldn't hear you. Maybe because I recently spent three hours in a car with a dog panting in my ear. Three solid hours of panting. And that was just the return trip; ditto for going. It could have been worse. I could have been the one in the back seat with him. Him is Buster. His close friends (all five of us) call him by an assortment of silly names like Bussie, Babeesh, Lil Brudder, or B-a-a-a-a-be. Our neighbors probably have a few select names for him as well, most likely related to his early morning fondness for pooping in any yard other than his own. My guess is you could call him anything that begins with the letter B and he'd probably come, or at least roll his round eyes in your direction, because I'm pretty sure he only recognizes the "buh" sound at the beginning of his name. But then Buster is better known in these parts for his devil-may-care charm and rakish good looks than for his keen intellect. That and his remarkable new-found ability for elite level cross-country panting.

Mr. Buster- America's gentleman, the Boston Terrier. Not one for putting on airs, when nature handed out the clothes to his mother's little pack of bitches and beaus, he opted for an unassuming tuxedo t-shirt rather than the formal black tie attire favored by the Westminster set. But phooey on those dog show snobs, with their "ideal" muzzle lengths, "preferred" toplines, and "required" markings. So what if a fellow is a little spotty, sway backed and flop-eared, or prefers to stand with his head down and feet "splayed." I've always liked my men with a few flaws. If I'd been looking for perfect, I might have questioned why his daddy and momma had conveniently gone for a little ride in the car with someone the very afternoon we drove out to the middle of nowhere to buy him. As it was, he had me from the minute he started chewing on my shoelaces and eating my brand new edition of Martha Stewart Living. And it's been nothing but love ever since. Mostly.

What' not to love about Buster? He does all the things we trained him to do, whether we meant to or not. He comes when he's called if he feels like it. He sits on the third or fourth command. He barks at joggers (who, let's face it, are basically asking for it; sometimes I even feel like barking at joggers.) He returns to his own yard every morning without fail after celebrating another day's successful constitutional on the next door neighbor's lawn with a lively performance of the "poopy dance." He positions himself exactly 3 ft. 8 in. away from the dining table, technically still within the beg zone but not so close as to be in the yell zone. And he can do things he wasn't taught- like gazing poignantly into your eyes for 10 or 15 minutes or however long it takes for you to realize he hasn't been fed yet, or twisting and rolling playfully on his back on the carpet until he gets all that loose hair and pet dander rubbed off. Clever boy. All this in addition to the fact that he can pant like a Big Dog.

Seriously though, but for the fact that he's only a foot tall and, well, a dog, Buster is the ideal man. He'll eat whatever you drop in front of him. Or behind him. You can yell at him and he won't remember it five minutes later. He doesn't know the difference between HGTV and NASCAR. He's always ready for fun, but will stop when you say no. If he hurts you it won't be on purpose, and if you'll let him he'll even lick the wound. Okay, forget that one, but it's true he is a special guy. Just ask the girls who love him.

Speaking of the girls who love him, ever since they've moved out of the house he's been sporting a long face; despite the fact that the AKC says his muzzle should be short and square. His wheezing road trip to the big city to deposit sister #2 in her new digs spelled the end of his good times. No more "pull sock" or long walks with the girls carrying those plastic bags while pretending not to see what he was doing in those swanky Brookhaven yards. No more kisses, Sun Chips, peanut butter, or stolen moments up on the bed. Too much silence, too many empty rooms, too much waiting for the sound of the key in the lock and the slam of the front door that says they're home. I know just how he feels. My face is long these days, too.

Come on, Buster, I think we could both use a walk.