Losing My Friend, Buster

Hold On, Jessica, Don't Let Go

Losing My Friend, Buster

Losing a pet can be hard, as the young person in this story learns.
However, sometimes we must face hard things in life.
The story is in memory of Sheba, a special friend, pictured here.

LOSING MY FRIEND, BUSTER

by Deanna Hessedal Tiddle

I have a problem. A bad problem. My dog, Buster, is dying.

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A few weeks ago Buster didn't want to eat much anymore, so Dad and I took him to the vet. After she examined him, she said, "I'm sorry, but your dog is very ill."

"Give him some medicine to make him well," I said.

She looked at me, then at my dad. "I'm sorry," she said again, "but Buster is dying."

"No!" I cried. "You're a doctor. Can't you help him?"

The vet stroked Buster's head. Her face was sad. "I can give him medicine that might help him feel better, but it won't make him well," she warned. "There's nothing else we can do."

On the drive home, Dad and I were quiet. I kept my arm around Buster, who watched everything he could see out the window. Buster always liked riding in the car.

At home, Dad told Mom what the doctor had said. Tears ran down Mom's cheeks.

But I knew the vet was wrong. We could help Buster if we just tried.

The medicine did help Buster. He even began eating more. He became a little stronger. I told my parents, "See. He's getting well."

They shook their heads. "I'm sorry, but Buster won't get well," Mom said.

"Remember what the vet said," Dad told me. "There is nothing we can do."

I knew they were all wrong. We could help Buster.

Everyday I took good care of Buster. I gave him fresh water and I encouraged him to eat. I petted him and I told him what a good dog he was. I took him outside when he needed to go. One day he had an accident on the kitchen floor, and I cleaned it up.

He always wanted to be near me. He lay by my feet while I did my homework. When I walked to another room, Buster followed me. He took lots of naps. Sometimes I sat on the floor beside him while he slept. He would open his eyes and look at me. Then he would shut them and go back to sleep. I think he liked knowing I was there.

But then Buster got weaker. He sometimes stumbled when he walked. I was scared and sad. But I kept taking good care of him.

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Now he is lying very still. He opens his eyes once in a while to look at me, then his eyes fall shut again. I know what is happening. I don't know how I know. I just know. I pet him. Over and over again, I say his name and tell him he's a good dog. Once I think he even smiles at me. Finally, he stops breathing.

Tears spill from my eyes. This is hard. Very hard. I stand and bang the wall with my fist.

"You were right," I tell my parents. "There was nothing we could do."

They hug me. "No," Dad says. "You were right. You did so much for Buster."

"Yes," Mom says. "You were a good friend who gave him love and comfort when he needed them most."

I cry, but I know they're right. I did help Buster. I was his friend, and he was my friend. All of Buster's life, whenever I felt hurt or sad, he would know and he'd comfort me. He'd rest his head on my lap and look up at me with his big sad eyes. And when I was happy, he'd bark and jump around all happy too. That's how friends are, I think.

Now my problem is I'll miss Buster with all my heart. And I don't exactly see why he had to die. But deep inside me, I'm glad I was there for him when he really needed me, as he always was for me.