He was never what you’d call an “easy dog”, and only from time to time a “good” dog. Oh, there were times he could be sweet, but for the most part, Buster was an “Orange Alert” dog, occasionally going to red, but never, ever going to yellow.
I’m not sure what happened with Buster. He was the third in a series of four Soft Coated Wheaten Terriers I’ve owned, and he was always a bit... unusual. In his day, he weighed in at around 48 pounds, easily twenty percent larger than “acceptable”, but not fat. One of his vets (he went through many) described him as “the Shaquille O’Neal of Wheaten Terriers”. He was quick as lightning when he wanted to be. Which was usually when I didn’t want him to be.
My first two Wheatens, Dubie and Finney, were daughter-father, acquired in that order, Dubie as a puppy, Finney as an adult. Dubie was a good dog; Finney was one of those rare dogs that you are lucky to have once in your life. When both of them were gone, and we were thinking of getting a dog for our kids, we never thought of anything except a Wheaten. We were reluctant to go through “the puppy thing” of training and housebreaking, so when the breeder from whom I got my earlier dogs told me she knew of a one-year old male who needed a home, I was all over it.
Perhaps I should have asked more questions. The owner had four young children and told me she thought Buster just wasn’t getting enough attention. I eagerly arranged to fly from Vegas to Phoenix, rent a car, pick up Buster, and drive back, my new dog proudly in tow.
From the beginning, he wasn’t quite right. At first he was skittish around Jackie and me, and wanted little to do with the kids. We chalked it up to unfamiliar surroundings, and gradually he warmed up... sort of. He’d growl at the kids from time to time... a warning shot across the bow, which told them to back off. “He’ll get used to them, and they to him”, and they all did... sort of.
The first weekend we had him, we took him to my son’s soccer game, proud to have this cute, cuddly pup. Bad idea. He snapped at several kids, and took an extreme disliking to Michael’s assistant coach. That was the last soccer game Buster ever attended. As bad as that was, things went downhill from there. We quickly learned that Buster didn’t suffer strangers gladly, nor bicycles, nor small children. While my daughter was feeding him once, he gave her the type of snarl that strikes fear into little girls, and causes fathers to administer pup punishment with extreme prejudice. I was convinced we had made a serious error in taking him in. Jackie, the animal advocate, thought otherwise. She was convinced that with some training, he could be a socialized, functional family member. Despite my reservations, we went ahead and enlisted a professional.
“He’s an incredibly smart dog”, Dave the dog trainer told us. “Look at how he follows airplanes across the sky, and how he observes everything around him!” And he was eminently trainable. He wanted to be a good dog. He really did. But when he snapped at Dave towards the end of a series of sessions, Dave gave us bad news. “This dog is a serious risk. He’s unstable, perhaps a little psycho, and you’re running the risk that he will hurt someone badly. If he were my dog, and I don’t say this lightly, I’d consider putting him down.”
This was, to say the least, devastating news. “He’s not that bad!” But he was. Despite our best efforts, and our guard. We’d lock him away when company came. We’d never let him off the leash. We took him... nowhere. He loved to go with Jackie to the barn. He’d sit quietly, by himself, and watch her trot around the ring contentedly. But Buster took off after many people, and bit a few. Fortunately, they were very forgiving. He was a loaded gun, waiting to go off.
There was no doubt he was Jackie’s dog, and she was Buster’s queen. He followed her around the house, and although he’d greet me or the kids excitedly when we entered the house, if Jackie came in with us, we were invisible. He’d sit at her feet through thick and thin, and god forbid he thought you were a threat to her. He’d bark and threaten all types of malice even when the kids hugged her, though he never made good on those threats.
Buster could be a delight at times, but like a big adolescent, he always took it too far. He had a set of wheels and at times was good with other dogs, which was fun and a joy to watch. We had to always watch for passers-by though, as he’d take off after them as though shot from a cannon, looking maniacally threatening. That made him impossible to take out for the play he desperately needed. He loved swimming in the pool... I’ve never seen a terrier that loved the water like that. But out of the pool, he’d run around like a dervish, snapping at anyone who got near the sides. He’d jump on the bed and lick the kids to death, but he could never settle down. He was just too excited on the bed, or in the car, where he was impossible to calm, bouncing around for the entire trip. That cost him trips to the barn. It was hazardous to drive with Buster in the car.
When he was 8 or 9, Buster tore his ACL. We were never really sure how, but that slowed him down. You wouldn’t notice except for the occasional limp or when he stood; often on only three legs. He couldn’t take off quite so much, although he could still attack the front door when he heard the doorbell or when we had company. The last house was hard on him... no yard to speak of. But when the weather was cool or inclement, he loved to sit on the back porch and watch the world go by. Going up the stairs was out of the question, which was a relief, as he’d attack the tiles, slipping and crashing all the way to the top. The new dog would enlist him in play, and he’d sometimes go like a puppy until he got tired and wandered off to lie in front of the couch.
After thirteen years, and like all the Wheatens I’ve had, Buster seemed to go from dog to invalid rapidly. For months we cordoned off parts of the house, since he would become disoriented and relieve himself without warning. His hearing went, so the doorbell was no longer a threat, and he developed a cataract in his left eye, making him turn to see us. More and more, I had to nudge him to wake him up, and lift him so he could gather his footing. We were constantly cleaning up after him, as his control over his functions was failing. More and more, we had to question whether he had a life at all.
Finally, the day came when we faced that Buster was only Buster in brief spurts. Jackie and I sat in the “Quiet Room” at the vet’s office, convinced it was the right time, but wondering whether it really was. How do you know? The final drive was like the first one... just as he hyperventilated for five hours from Phoenix to Las Vegas, so he did for the 15 minutes it took to get to the vet’s office. We patted and stroked him, knowing it was right, and wishing it were otherwise.
Our vet knew Buster. He was a “caution” dog. In fact, she was the only one of the many who saw him who put up with his bad behavior. We wept... slightly at first; eventually unashamedly. And Buster, being Buster until the end, did not go gently. He looked at us with those great brown eyes, promising he’d be good, that he could go on, it would be okay... but it was time, and he was gone.
We hugged him, and hugged each other. Why do we fall in love with dogs knowing that at some point, we will betray them?
Was Buster a bad dog? No. He was not always the dog we wanted or thought he would be, but he was always loyal, and parting with him is hard. He was not always a “good” dog, but he will always be a missed dog.
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