buster, c.2008–2026

a canine obituary

He was a good dog, which is to say, he was a bad dog a lot of the time. He loved food, killing small animals, and ignoring commands. He had classic midcentury good looks, like he’d just stepped out of a Coca-Cola advertisement to check things out. He loved certain people devotedly and the rest he regarded with a wary tolerance. To those he loved he would be sweet and affectionate, even climbing into your lap until his old age meant that this was too uncomfortable for him. Still, his favorite way to be with others was not to sit in their lap but to lie down near them while they did something else. He liked companionship but only rarely wanted direct attention. He really liked it if you sat down on the floor with him but didn’t touch him.

We adopted him, along with his brother (who predeceased him), from an animal shelter. They had given him the name “Porter,” which didn’t fit at all. When he first arrived from the animal shelter he eventually grew willing to trust me and my mother, but for years he would attack men’s feet on sight if he felt they were behaving in an untrustworthy manner or simply moving without permission. He also adored my grandmother, who once fed him an entire filet mignon piece by piece.

His hatreds, which were distinct from his general misanthropy, were severe, implacable, and instant. Until last summer, he was extraordinarily healthy—his exact age is unknown, but we think he was eighteen—and we all believed his hatred of my parents’ other dog kept him young and spry. Who knows? He was eventually betrayed by his back legs and maybe they contained less hatred than the rest of him.

But most of the time, for most of his life, he combined his delicate good looks with an air of ruffled disappointment. In this he followed his namesake, Buster Keaton. Like Buster Keaton, who was five feet five inches, Buster was a small dog. I don’t know that he was a gifted physical comedian. He might have been but only another dog would know. He and Boswell got along well and maybe they made each other laugh.

Previous readers of this newsletter will remember that Buster loved Midnights and the work of Jack Antonoff. He was also into the Florence + The Machine album How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful. In his final days, he became a fan of Sydney Sprague’s debut album, so if she and Jack Antonoff ever collaborate, they should call their song “For Buster.” Lest you think I am projecting, I should say that he was not an uncritical dog. He did not like Brian Eno’s ambient music. I thought he would but he did not.

in his younger years, with his brother

Because he hated the other dog so much, Buster moved into the basement with me and Boswell, which I knew meant that I would be the person who noticed when he was in terminal decline. My big fear was that I would hold onto him past the point he was enjoying his life, out of selfishness and fear. When came to it, though, the moment he crossed over from “in decline but happy” to “in decline and in distress” was impossible to miss. It’s a cliche but a kind of light did go out of his eyes. He was a good friend to me. I’m glad that when it mattered I could be a good friend to him.