In Memoriam Buster Brown

I used to hate dogs. I hated, loathed and despised dogs. I hated dogs most of my life.

My first close contact with a dog came when I was about three and my aunt, who lived upstairs, got a tiny Pomeranian. It was a typical small dog, snippy, yappy and nasty. Whenever I came near it, it snapped at me.

My next dog was my grandparents’ Boston Terrier. I didn’t mind her because she didn’t bother me much, except for when she wanted to play tug and would push at me a rubber toy that was all slimy with dog spit. I hated dog spit.

Then there was the big Irish Setter that bit me, twice, when I was eight. This dog roamed our neighborhood, and I never bothered it at all; in fact, I’d go the other way when I saw him outside. On two (and only two) occasions I went into the house where he lived, and for no reason at all he ran over to me as soon as I stepped through the door and bit me in the leg. Both times.

As time went on, further unpleasant encounters with canines nurtured my hatred of dogs to the point that I was disgusted by the very idea that such things as dogs existed. I said unkind things about dogs, and I thought even worse things. I hated my late mother-in-law’s small but malicious Lhaso Apso so much that I used to wonder if I could kick it in the head hard enough to kill it.

I hated dogs.

My partner liked dogs, however, and after she was employed by our local humane society, it was pretty much inevitable that there would be a dog in my life. She brought home (just for the weekend) a Boxer/Pit Bull puppy who, within the first five minutes he was in our house, peed, pooped, and puked on the living room rug. She brought him home the next weekend too, and he never went back to the shelter.

He grew up to be a gangly, goofy, energetic, fun-loving dude who drooled all the time, and who was all elbows and knees when he tried to climb into your lap, and who went nuts when the doorbell rang. He played catch and fetch and tug-of-war and ran laps in the back yard. He respected other animals and was especially protective of smaller dogs. He bravely warned off every potential burglar and life-threatening intruder with his fierce bark, and he was reduced to a bowl of trembling doggie Jell-O during thunderstorms. He knew when you didn’t feel good and treated you accordingly, and he took his half of the bed out of the middle, sideways.

Of course, I wanted nothing to do with him, and I resisted for the first few years, but he was persistent and persuasive and gradually forced me to change my views. He went to his reward seven years ago tomorrow, and I still miss him.

I used to hate dogs, but I don’t any more, because a dog loved me.