Read Online Buster's Diaries: The True Story of a Dog and His Man by Roy Hattersley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roy Hattersley
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truth about bending down to collect my excrement and relaxing his grip on the long lead. He really
has no excuse for letting me behave like that. As I have made clear more than once, the price of Buster is eternal vigilance.
After about fifty telephone calls with the solicitor, he decided that the letter should include what he calls a joke. “In
fact, Buster was never off the lead. Unfortunately I was.” As soon as he had mailed the letter he started to worry about the
joke costing him an extra £100. The rest of the letter was very pious. “I am naturally most disturbed by the news that he
killed the goose and very much regret its death.”
As we might have expected, it was the
Evening Standard
which was waiting for us when we went out for our morning walk, and their photographer took more pictures of me. The Man
said he was going to stand by me. The reporter followed us all the way to Green Park. I was careful to sit very still when
we had to wait for the traffic lights to change. When we got to Buckingham Palace, a policeman said, “I see the reptiles have
been let out today.” I thought he meant me, but the Man knewbetter. He asked the policeman what would happen if he strangled the reporter and the policeman replied, “I would shake you
by the hand.” Despite this encouragement, the Man did not strangle the reporter, who went home when we got to the muddy part
of Green Park.
The solicitor telephoned at lunchtime to say that the Man had been fined £25 for not keeping me on a lead and £50 for letting
me kill the goose. He would also have to pay £200 costs. The Man did not seem to mind. He was much more upset to learn that
“the place was full of journalists.”
November 21, 1996
This morning began last night. The Man would not go to bed until today’s papers were on sale near Victoria Railroad Station,
and I had to stay awake and go with him. A Rastafarian offered to buy me for £50. The Man said, “Not for five thousand,” and
the Rastafarian said, “He is not worth five thousand.” I had liked him until then.
All the papers had stories about me. The Man says I must be careful not to be spoilt by fame, and hehas refused to allow me to go on television. I heard him say on the telephone, “All it needs is an exploding lightbulb or
a cameraman with a sandwich and all hell will be let loose.”
The newspaper stories all contain terrible puns—up in front of the beak, fowl play and goose being cooked. The Man said, “You
come out of it better than I do. You’re only an assassin. I’m a journalist.” I don’t think that I come out of it badly at
all.
November 27, 1996
The Man has joined Passports for Pets. It is an organization that wants me to go on holiday to France. In fact I can already
go on holiday to most places. But I am not allowed back.
All the French dogs are mad and foam at the mouth and run around France biting people. The people they bite die. The dogs
they bite die as well, but not until they have bitten people and killed them. I cannot go to France because, if I did, a French
dog would bite me and, when I came back, I would bite Englishmen and kill them.
Passports for Pets wants to stop all this happening, but I am not sure how they will do it. I am not even sure that I want
to go to France.
December 3, 1996—Derbyshire
I think I have fallen in love again. This morning, when we went on our usual walk across the fields to the old railway line,
a golden-haired retriever bounced up to me, and for a moment I forgot about the sheep that I was hoping to turn into mutton.
I fear my emotions were embarrassingly obvious, for the Man said, in his most coy voice, “What about Silky? Have you forgotten
her?” Of course I’ve forgotten her. I can’t remember much for more than twenty-four hours—though, if we ever meet again, all
the old feelings will come flooding back.
The golden-haired retriever is called Flora and her hair—which is
has no excuse for letting me behave like that. As I have made clear more than once, the price of Buster is eternal vigilance.
After about fifty telephone calls with the solicitor, he decided that the letter should include what he calls a joke. “In
fact, Buster was never off the lead. Unfortunately I was.” As soon as he had mailed the letter he started to worry about the
joke costing him an extra £100. The rest of the letter was very pious. “I am naturally most disturbed by the news that he
killed the goose and very much regret its death.”
As we might have expected, it was the
Evening Standard
which was waiting for us when we went out for our morning walk, and their photographer took more pictures of me. The Man
said he was going to stand by me. The reporter followed us all the way to Green Park. I was careful to sit very still when
we had to wait for the traffic lights to change. When we got to Buckingham Palace, a policeman said, “I see the reptiles have
been let out today.” I thought he meant me, but the Man knewbetter. He asked the policeman what would happen if he strangled the reporter and the policeman replied, “I would shake you
by the hand.” Despite this encouragement, the Man did not strangle the reporter, who went home when we got to the muddy part
of Green Park.
The solicitor telephoned at lunchtime to say that the Man had been fined £25 for not keeping me on a lead and £50 for letting
me kill the goose. He would also have to pay £200 costs. The Man did not seem to mind. He was much more upset to learn that
“the place was full of journalists.”
November 21, 1996
This morning began last night. The Man would not go to bed until today’s papers were on sale near Victoria Railroad Station,
and I had to stay awake and go with him. A Rastafarian offered to buy me for £50. The Man said, “Not for five thousand,” and
the Rastafarian said, “He is not worth five thousand.” I had liked him until then.
All the papers had stories about me. The Man says I must be careful not to be spoilt by fame, and hehas refused to allow me to go on television. I heard him say on the telephone, “All it needs is an exploding lightbulb or
a cameraman with a sandwich and all hell will be let loose.”
The newspaper stories all contain terrible puns—up in front of the beak, fowl play and goose being cooked. The Man said, “You
come out of it better than I do. You’re only an assassin. I’m a journalist.” I don’t think that I come out of it badly at
all.
November 27, 1996
The Man has joined Passports for Pets. It is an organization that wants me to go on holiday to France. In fact I can already
go on holiday to most places. But I am not allowed back.
All the French dogs are mad and foam at the mouth and run around France biting people. The people they bite die. The dogs
they bite die as well, but not until they have bitten people and killed them. I cannot go to France because, if I did, a French
dog would bite me and, when I came back, I would bite Englishmen and kill them.
Passports for Pets wants to stop all this happening, but I am not sure how they will do it. I am not even sure that I want
to go to France.
December 3, 1996—Derbyshire
I think I have fallen in love again. This morning, when we went on our usual walk across the fields to the old railway line,
a golden-haired retriever bounced up to me, and for a moment I forgot about the sheep that I was hoping to turn into mutton.
I fear my emotions were embarrassingly obvious, for the Man said, in his most coy voice, “What about Silky? Have you forgotten
her?” Of course I’ve forgotten her. I can’t remember much for more than twenty-four hours—though, if we ever meet again, all
the old feelings will come flooding back.
The golden-haired retriever is called Flora and her hair—which is
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