Buster was the best

By Craig Wilson, USA TODAY

My friend Lisa called the other day to share some sad
news. Her dog, Buster, had advanced lymphoma and was going to have to be
put
down. There was no hope.

The vet had said the dog could undergo some treatments,
but they would only prolong his life a few months, and Lisa had decided not
to
put him through that. She wanted him to live out his last few weeks with
some kind of dignity, then die peacefully.

Buster was almost 10, and before he moved to New York a
couple of years ago, he was my dog's best friend. They grew up together
and spent most mornings romping in the park. Buster even stayed overnight
on occasion, a canine pajama party on the third-floor landing.

Two months older than Murphy, he was a bit of an older
brother to her. John Wayne to her Scarlett O'Hara.

A big black Lab whose massive features did not translate
to the brain area, he spent most of his life lumbering the earth looking
for
food. He was very good at it. Every walk with Buster was a stroll down
life's
buffet table. You quickly realized how much food there really is out there
on
the streets of America. Pork chop bones. Pieces of KFC chicken. The odd
french fry.

And when he moved to New York, he quickly adapted,
searching out the best and most dog-friendly bagel establishments on the
Upper
West Side. He made sure they were on his morning route, along with a swim
in
the Central Park lake.

Like most of us, Buster mellowed with age. In his younger
years, he had a bit of a reputation as a street fighter. Although he was
really quite a lovable lummox, he could take an instant dislike to a
strange
dog, something he did once when I was walking him.

There I was, smiling and nodding to this woman walking
toward us, and the next thing I knew, Buster had her little black dog in
his
mouth.

Once I removed her from Buster's jaws, the startled pooch
and her equally startled owner scurried away, and my pounding heart fell
back into my chest.

I yelled at him, but the expression on his face was
classic Buster: "Hey, what are you looking at me for?"

Murphy, however, was always accepted by Buster, and she
delighted in his company, often bumping up against him as they ran down the
lane that runs through the woods of Rock Creek Park.

The only thing they didn't do together was dine. Food
could never be brought out with both of them in the room. It's a dog thing.
They
always ate alone.

But Buster knew where the treats were stored at my house
and without fail would sit in the corner of the kitchen, stare up at the
jar on the counter, and wait until I took out a Milk-Bone and gave it to
him. He
was quick, devouring it before Murphy could scramble down the stairs and
into
the kitchen to bark her displeasure. The routine always made me laugh.

Now Buster is gone.

Who are these characters who come and go from our lives,
leaving behind hair on the sofa and more than a few footnotes in our
personal history? Who sends them to us, and who takes them away? Does it
matter?

They are gifts. We can only embrace, enjoy and let go
when
we must. Even if it always seems way too soon.