The bestest little buddy

Buster Posey Scearce made an impression wherever he went. I’m not entirely sure why, given that he was a Lhasa Apso, a breed of aloof little creatures, fiercely loyal to their owners but not particularly enamored with the general population, human or canine.

When he arrived at our house, back in 2012 as an itty-bitty puppy, our neighbors threw a block party for him, with booze and food and even a guest appearance by the University of San Francisco mascot, the Don.

I mean, Buster was somebody.

He grew into a bon vivant, an ambassador. He walked around the neighborhood like A Man About Town. He was a prancer, head high, surveying the situation. A regal little dude.

I know it’s hard to be objective about these things, and all puppies are cute, but a Lhasa Apso is just a paragon of adorableness. Big brown eyes, two layers of fluffy hair, black button nose. Strangers would approach him on his walks, beguiled by his face. “So cute!” a woman once remarked as she passed. “Thank you!” I responded. “Oh, wait, did you mean my dog?” We both cracked up. Buster pranced ahead, oblivious.

This little dog brought so many lovely people into our lives – neighbors I never would have met, dog park parents, pet store employees. They all knew Buster. He particularly enjoyed strolling up to our neighborhood pet store CitiPets, where he’d be mauled by the clerks. He wasn’t particularly fond of their hugs and affection, but he uncharacteristically put up with it all, undoubtedly seduced by the treats offered every time he graced the store with his presence.

We live near a Catholic church, and as a young dog he’d race down the stairs and out to the backyard whenever he heard the evening bells. He’d lie on the grass, just listening. He loved music. Then he’d continue to lie patiently in wait for our young next-door neighbor Lauren to get home from work. Tipped off by the sound of her heels on her wooden floor, he’d demand that she immediately come outside and dole out treats over the fence, using a cooking spoon with a long handle. If she didn’t appear soon enough, he’d let her know about it. When she had the audacity to move to Ireland, breaking our hearts and his, he’d lie out there every night for months, staring at her window.

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Lhasas come from the mountains of Tibet, where they zealously guarded Buddhist monasteries from approaching marauders. These dogs are not fighters; they are much too refined for that. They are sentinels. Their job is to protect against invaders by basically barking their lungs out. Buster spent much of his time up on his perch by the window, or on the precarious back of the couch, surveying the neighborhood and frequently letting loose with a bark so shrill it could trigger a coronary.

He was also unendingly stubborn, as is his breed’s wont. As a puppy, he once sat stock still for 6 straight hours in protest when we decided he should wear his collar indoors. We thought we would outlast him – I mean, who can sit immobile for 6 hours? – but he won his freedom when we caved. Never wore that collar indoors again.

I do give him credit, though, for actually learning a smattering of commands. He absolutely refused to acknowledge “Come!” throughout his entire existence, but for some reason he responded immediately to “Stay!” In fact, he’d stop on a dime. He also quickly learned to “Sneeze!” when my mother began rewarding him for that. An odd command. But he became a sneezer for life.

Buster liked routine, as all dogs do, but he was also a dog of ritual. When asked if he wanted to go for a walk, he insisted on performing a ritualized, circular lap (or sometimes two) around the house before we could go out the front door, with me slowly following behind. No exceptions.

He had a huge heart (Lhasas are known as “lionhearted”), but he never, ever wore it on his sleeve. When people visited, he didn’t jump on them, shower them with kisses (heaven forbid), or leap into their laps. He had no interest in such cloying displays of affection. But he guarded them valiantly, sitting at their feet, or – once he ascertained their intentions and character – smashing his little body right up beside them on the couch. I was amazed at how many people called him their “little buddy.” Especially guys. He was a man’s man.

On his weekly trips out to the beach with other dogs, he insisted on charging in front, leading the pack. He was determined. He was not a frolicker. He was steadfast – a “reserved observer,” as Julie called him.

And he could be brave. Oh, so brave. Five years ago he tore the ligaments in both of his knees, and it was many weeks before the surgeon could operate, so he was completely immobile for more than a month. Imagine that. Couldn’t move an inch. He sat stoically on his perch all day while all we could do was continually tell him we loved him. And after the double surgery it was a long while before he could walk – a really difficult recovery. But he kept heroically trying and conquered all of it. Learned to prance again.

In that way, he was a warrior.

But he was also deathly afraid of flies. Go figure.

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Buster had a seizure last Tuesday while out on a walk with me, and the vet just couldn’t save him. It was unexpected, traumatic, shocking.

I haven’t been in this much piercing pain in a long time. I don’t know what to do with myself. My whole day revolved around him in some way. There was always another trip to plan, another walk to take, another bath to give, another round of fetch, another chase through the house.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but suddenly my life feels empty and without purpose.

I’ve tried going on walks, but the vibrant colors of my neighborhood have become gray, like a lunar landscape. And no one stops to talk. Buster isn’t with me any more.

We haven’t put away any of his things yet. His toys are still lying around exactly where they were on Tuesday. Maybe soon. Maybe when I can breathe properly again.

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Because we got Buster when we were both working, he knew some fantastic dog-walkers over the years. Al, Galen, Louise – you know who you are. We asked Louise – an absolute gem of a human being – to continue walking him once a week even after we retired, so that he could stay socialized with a pack. She also kept him for us when we occasionally took vacations and couldn’t bring him along.

So here’s something synchronistic. Buster had one little dog-friend in the pack whom he loved, for reasons known only to the two of them. His name was Puck, and he was a little white dog with crazy Einstein hair, around Buster’s age. Many years ago, both of them were out with a dog-walker when Puck unexpectedly had to be taken to a vet. The walker dropped the rest of the pack off at a dog-sitting place, but Buster refused to get out of the van. So he went with Puck to the vet. There was no way he was leaving Puck’s side.

When his owner passed away a few years ago, Puck went to live with Louise. Louise would tell us that Puck was a wild man at night, restless, unable to sleep. But when Buster was there, he’d calm Puck down and they’d sleep together.

The very day after Buster passed, Louise called and told us that Puck had passed away that morning. I guess they just couldn’t be separated. God, I hope they’re playing together again now.

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Here’s the solace I’m finding:

Buster had orthopedic problems that often bothered him, and the vet says that his late-in-life seizure undoubtedly indicated a brain tumor. His days were only going to get harder.

And I know that we gave him a life that was one heck of an adventure. He accompanied us on six road trips back and forth to Kentucky. He stood on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. Saw cowboys in New Mexico. Visited the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo. Admired the Mickey Mantle statue in Commerce, Oklahoma. Sat under the world’s biggest rocking chair in Cuba, Missouri. Ate barbecue in Nashville. Tromped through a pumpkin patch in Indiana. Paid his respects to veterans on the Purple Heart Trail. Posed next to the Lincoln Highway monument in Wyoming. Walked along the shore of the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. Sat on an antique trail wagon in Elko, Nevada.

He was The World’s Greatest Traveler.

He loved motels, he loved the road, and he loved being with us.  And we loved him every minute of the day.

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I’ll close, finally, with something Louise wrote to us this week.

“It was a true honor to serve that stoic and noble man!! I’ll keep him in my heart forever.” 

Goodbye and godspeed, my sweet boy, my noble man.

You were the bestest, bestest little buddy.

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