When you're little, some things stand out in your memory as if they happened just yesterday. You remember the time, setting, words that were said and everything, except, maybe for exactly when it was in your childhood. The story of Buster is one of these memories memories.
Living on a farm has its ups and downs, just like any other place.
The minuses? No neighbors to rely on when something bad happens, such as a fire. If there's a medical emergency, you're better off driving twenty minutes into town to the local hospital, because there's no way an ambulance will get there any sooner. If you lose power, you are last on the list of areas to be restored. If there is an ice storm, make sure to leave your water running at a small drip, because the water will freeze over if you don't, and are on a farm, that can have disastrous consequences for both you and the animals.
The positives? Being surrounded by nature gave us a greater appreciation for the natural world around. Gazing up into the blue sky, I knew the difference in flight style between a hawk and a crow, and their calls. I've seen a group of deer gracefully hop across a cornfield as if they were crossing their own roadways, and there was no one there to disturb them. I've seen wild turkey hang out around the barn as if we were the great intruders. I know how to cross over a creek in a matter of minutes, where usually you see people carefully and shakily walk across, so as not to fall in. If you fall in? You get wet! Big deal. I've taken creek silt and spread it across my legs as if I were at a spa, and I have gotten stuck in the thick mud of a creek. I survived. The best part of all, in my childish mind, were the stray animals that would roam into our farm.
Dogs and cats were often dropped off by the side of the road by pet owners who no longer wanted them. When they smelled food cooking at our house, their noses and stomachs were led to our porch. We dutifully filled spare bowls with food and then had to decide what to do with these pets. Usually we kept them all, until we found a new owner; or we would adopt them as our own and take care of them.
One summer day, before I entered the fourth grade (I think), a golden retriever strayed onto our property. He was relatively young with a buttery yellow and thick coat. He was the idyllic family dog, in my mind. As with all of the other dogs who strayed to our house, he was tied up to a lead line (for a horse) and clipped to a hook on the side of one of the two back porches. The golden retriever was no different. We fed and petted him, and then tied him up to the porch.
One summer day, shortly after his arrival, my sister and I decided to go swimming. We walked across the long, thick grass and jumped into the pool and swam around for a few minutes. Suddenly we heard a dog yelping and shrieking. We looked over the edge of the pool toward the house and saw our new dog hanging from the porch by his lead line. My sister jumped up and ran toward him to save this dog from his imminent demise. He had wrapped the line around a column of the porch several times, and then decided to jump off of the porch. I followed behind my sister as she tried to save him. As she tried to unwrap him from the porch, she muttered, "Okay, buster....." and so our family dog, Buster, was named.
It should have been a sign of things to come; but we all laughed it off and thought, "oh that silly dog." In the coming months, Buster made it very clear that he did not like to be tied up, and come hell or high water, he would not be tied up, even if he had to pull the whole house down as he tried to make his escape away from the hook that bound him. So, to save the house from falling down, he was released.
Buster was a ravenous golden retriever. Whatever we put out for him as food, he devoured within seconds. It stands to reason that once his bowl was empty, he would search for food elsewhere, and that meant in the trash. Once we relented and let him run free, the trash cans were his first target. There was trash everywhere. There was trash blown into the trees nearby, food scraps (bones) littered around the house; it was a mess. But he didn't stop there. When he found what he wanted from our trash cans, he went hunting for more food at the houses over a mile away down the road. We got many phone calls telling of his adventures. We'd tie him up, and he'd almost pull the house down. We released him, and the cycle would repeat. Buster was a real buster.
As any kid would have, I loved that crazy dog. Aside from his misdeeds, he was loving and happy and never minded a good rubby-dub on his ears. For him, having his back scratched was the next best thing to finding a turkey carcass in the trash. I saw past all of his abhorrent behavior and never wanted to let him go.
A year and half passed since that fateful day on the porch. The phone calls from neighbors never ceased, and the porch where he was tied back would never be the same again. It was time, my parents thought, to find a new home for Buster.
Eventually, right around Christmas, Buster was adopted by a family with a station wagon and two kids to love him. I never said anything to the rest of my family about it, but I was heartbroken. If I had shown any emotion over it, I would have been reprimanded by my dad, and he would have said, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself." (It took me years to accept that I do have emotions, and there's nothing wrong with it, and it also took me years to tell my dad that those words simply meant he felt guilty.) So on the Saturday afternoon when his new family took him away, I lain under the Christmas tree, gazing up at the lights and ornaments, and choked down a series of tears. The feeling always burned in my throat and chest, and its one that I associate with disappointment and heartbreak as a kid.
My dad saw me lying under the tree, and asked what was wrong. When I told him I was sad about Buster's departure, he was truly surprised. To him, the dog had been nothing but a nuisance. He had never even considered asking his kids how we felt about it. I suppose times have changed, and kids are now given more respect than ever, but at that time, what dad said is what was done, and that was that.
When I think of large dogs and golden retrievers, I often think of Buster. I often wonder if his new owners kept him, or if they gave him up as well. Whatever the case may be, I hope Buster got to live a long life, surrounded by love and laughter.
If my kids ever ask to get a golden retriever, I'm not so sure I would say yes, because I know the heartbreak of having to give up something that you love and have absolutely no control over.
