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Description
Buster our dog, who passed today. He came to us at the age of seven months, way back in 2004 (26 August). He was originally called Paul, but his exuberant jumping up at us when we went to look at him in the RSPCA centre (in Longwick) caused me to say 'steady on buster', and the name stuck. He chose us as much as vice versa. Standing on his spindly back legs for a cuddle was a standard Buster manoeuvre, back in the day. He also accrued such alternative names as Buster-doog, Bu, Bubba, Buffer, Bub, Bob, Gingus, Gingerhund, the Ginger Ninja, Wabby/Babby-Dogs, Babby-Ginger, Foxie, Ted, Toony, Digger, Scrumpleface, and Snump/Snumpy (on account of the sniffy snumpy noise he made when dust or pollen went up his nose). Podge was another nickname, and Plodger, when he slowed up, though he was skinny like a whippet and fast as a greyhound in his early days. Sausage was another one, lately, and he also got called Fuff/Fuffett.

He was apparently born on a Welsh farm, but didn't fancy working with sheep. Indeed he secured a better gig. He had a brother called Peter, apparently, who probably remained on a farm. Buster was much more interested in stalking/supervising the cat, and later the bunnies, all of whom he out-lasted (and watched go into holes in the garden, which was rather poignant). The bunnies brought out Buster's rounding-up instincts. Buster's favourite rabbit was the female called Charlotte, probably because she looked like a football. He used to 'help' get them back in their pens after they had been allowed out to graze free range. The younger Buster used to delight in football games as part of my welcome home celebrations when I was either going out to work (the picture framing job being the earliest) or the crusader studies course which I did. Buster also enjoyed chasing neighbours' cats out of the garden, though he took it as a game rather than being aggressive. (When he was no longer fit enough for that he still liked to go out periodically to check the garden was still there.)

He was a great spirit, a force of nature, a marvellous friend who gave the best welcomes whenever I came back from anywhere. When he first arrived he had a few naughty habits such as unrolling and ripping up tissue paper, and carrying it out into the garden. On two occasions he also found my mother's false teeth and took them out onto the lawn, for reasons best known to himself. But he settled in very quickly, and was very good really once he had gotten these eccentricities out of his system. He won a yellow rosette for coming third in the best rescue dog section at a dog show that was part of Risborough fete. In his younger days he was built for speed and agility. He would clamber over furniture and jump between chairs like a mountain goat. He would jump onto the widow sill, out the window, tear around the garden, then come back in to repeat the trick. He would swing around on a rubber tugging ring so that his back legs would lift up into the air. He would chase two or three footballs at the same time. His jumps and catches were astonishing, involving mid-air twists and all sorts. During walks he would charge into corn fields and leap about in the corn like a dolphin in the sea, or bomb along the track at the side at prodigious velocity. Another dog walker, who was his honorary granny, would give him scrunchy fishy treats, and he could spot her a mile off and would go running up to her. He once fell into a canal in Berkhamsted, after mistaking an overhanging bit of greenery for dry land. Another amusing memory was Buster remaining in my old car while it was winched onto a breakdown lorry, making it look like he was driving. He didn't bark very often, only when he saw something strange and novel, like a cement mixer.

He was extraordinarily intelligent, able to read minds. He combined clumsiness and delicacy in a very endearing way. He was charming, friendly, sweet, gentle and sensitive, and although he became a little more curmudgeonly in his old age he continued having his cuddly and cosy moments. His companionship helped me through some very trying times over the years. He had the brightest most beautiful eyes, with markings like Egyptian makeup. His eyes were bright to the last. He had perfect health for the longest time, but in the last two or three years he developed some unfortunate ailments, namely a large tumour-like growth on the inner side of his back left leg, which ultimately meant he could not climb the stairs or get into the car (even a few steps became tricky ultimately) and another growth under his tail which ultimately prevented him from being able to sit. He could only either stand or lie down- the latter he liked to do on a corner of the lawn where he would reflect on past glories. We thought he might be at the end of the road two Christmases ago, but his indomitable will and great courage enabled him to defy the odds and last until this morning. Unfortunately the back-end growth had become prone to bleeding (and started attracting flies) and the lump on his leg had become so large and heavy (and the other leg so weakened) that he was practically unable to walk without being supported. So the sad, fatal hour arrived. (We had hoped he would fade out naturally but that was not to be.) Two ladies from the vets had to come to 'put him to sleep'. Being like Rasputin, it took two sedation injections to get him into a docile state, and even then he mustered a defiant twitch or two when the fatal needle was going in. He knew that he was loved, I like to think, and I don't think he suffered too much, though it would have been out of character for him to go gentle into that good night. I can't believe he's gone. He will be much missed.

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Thanks for the kind comments.

Description
Buster our dog, who passed today. He came to us at the age of seven months, way back in 2004 (26 August). He was originally called Paul, but his exuberant jumping up at us when we went to look at him in the RSPCA centre (in Longwick) caused me to say 'steady on buster', and the name stuck. He chose us as much as vice versa. Standing on his spindly back legs for a cuddle was a standard Buster manoeuvre, back in the day. He also accrued such alternative names as Buster-doog, Bu, Bubba, Buffer, Bub, Bob, Gingus, Gingerhund, the Ginger Ninja, Wabby/Babby-Dogs, Babby-Ginger, Foxie, Ted, Toony, Digger, Scrumpleface, and Snump/Snumpy (on account of the sniffy snumpy noise he made when dust or pollen went up his nose). Podge was another nickname, and Plodger, when he slowed up, though he was skinny like a whippet and fast as a greyhound in his early days. Sausage was another one, lately, and he also got called Fuff/Fuffett.

He was apparently born on a Welsh farm, but didn't fancy working with sheep. Indeed he secured a better gig. He had a brother called Peter, apparently, who probably remained on a farm. Buster was much more interested in stalking/supervising the cat, and later the bunnies, all of whom he out-lasted (and watched go into holes in the garden, which was rather poignant). The bunnies brought out Buster's rounding-up instincts. Buster's favourite rabbit was the female called Charlotte, probably because she looked like a football. He used to 'help' get them back in their pens after they had been allowed out to graze free range. The younger Buster used to delight in football games as part of my welcome home celebrations when I was either going out to work (the picture framing job being the earliest) or the crusader studies course which I did. Buster also enjoyed chasing neighbours' cats out of the garden, though he took it as a game rather than being aggressive. (When he was no longer fit enough for that he still liked to go out periodically to check the garden was still there.)

He was a great spirit, a force of nature, a marvellous friend who gave the best welcomes whenever I came back from anywhere. When he first arrived he had a few naughty habits such as unrolling and ripping up tissue paper, and carrying it out into the garden. On two occasions he also found my mother's false teeth and took them out onto the lawn, for reasons best known to himself. But he settled in very quickly, and was very good really once he had gotten these eccentricities out of his system. He won a yellow rosette for coming third in the best rescue dog section at a dog show that was part of Risborough fete. In his younger days he was built for speed and agility. He would clamber over furniture and jump between chairs like a mountain goat. He would jump onto the widow sill, out the window, tear around the garden, then come back in to repeat the trick. He would swing around on a rubber tugging ring so that his back legs would lift up into the air. He would chase two or three footballs at the same time. His jumps and catches were astonishing, involving mid-air twists and all sorts. During walks he would charge into corn fields and leap about in the corn like a dolphin in the sea, or bomb along the track at the side at prodigious velocity. Another dog walker, who was his honorary granny, would give him scrunchy fishy treats, and he could spot her a mile off and would go running up to her. He once fell into a canal in Berkhamsted, after mistaking an overhanging bit of greenery for dry land. Another amusing memory was Buster remaining in my old car while it was winched onto a breakdown lorry, making it look like he was driving. He didn't bark very often, only when he saw something strange and novel, like a cement mixer.

He was extraordinarily intelligent, able to read minds. He combined clumsiness and delicacy in a very endearing way. He was charming, friendly, sweet, gentle and sensitive, and although he became a little more curmudgeonly in his old age he continued having his cuddly and cosy moments. His companionship helped me through some very trying times over the years. He had the brightest most beautiful eyes, with markings like Egyptian makeup. His eyes were bright to the last. He had perfect health for the longest time, but in the last two or three years he developed some unfortunate ailments, namely a large tumour-like growth on the inner side of his back left leg, which ultimately meant he could not climb the stairs or get into the car (even a few steps became tricky ultimately) and another growth under his tail which ultimately prevented him from being able to sit. He could only either stand or lie down- the latter he liked to do on a corner of the lawn where he would reflect on past glories. We thought he might be at the end of the road two Christmases ago, but his indomitable will and great courage enabled him to defy the odds and last until this morning. Unfortunately the back-end growth had become prone to bleeding (and started attracting flies) and the lump on his leg had become so large and heavy (and the other leg so weakened) that he was practically unable to walk without being supported. So the sad, fatal hour arrived. (We had hoped he would fade out naturally but that was not to be.) Two ladies from the vets had to come to 'put him to sleep'. Being like Rasputin, it took two sedation injections to get him into a docile state, and even then he mustered a defiant twitch or two when the fatal needle was going in. He knew that he was loved, I like to think, and I don't think he suffered too much, though it would have been out of character for him to go gentle into that good night. I can't believe he's gone. He will be much missed.

---

Thanks for the kind comments.