BUSTER

After I had hit my head on that rock, I felt my life changing. That and a little pain. 

That was my favorite spot on the river. I loved to dive from that mound next to the river, but I had never tried to dive from the tree. I always doubted that branch was thick enough for my weight. I was right.The branch broke and I went head first, unprepared. My hollow head hit a rock a few inches from the water.

That happened a long time ago when I still had a lot of energy. I was already married, which was a good thing because by then I had shown my wife how much I loved her. And she had enough time to know about my character and who I was. Otherwise, I think it might have been tough to find such a nice wife in my wheelchair. I'm not saying that it is impossible for anyone in a wheelchair to find a decent wife, no, but I think it makes it a little harder. Or a lot.

Suicide always comes to one's mind, but with my wife's indications of unconditional love, I could repel those thoughts. Eventually, those aches disappeared.

Three months later when I came back from the tremendous shock of pain, therapy and rehabilitation, (mental and physical) my wife gave me the greatest present I have ever received. But I didn't know it at the time. She gave me a puppy. I named him Buster. Breed unknown, an undefined mixture. She got him from the dog pound. That was my first time as a dog owner; I had never been a pet lover. Not that I disliked them. I was just indifferent to them.

With Buster, it was love at first sight for me. He was an extremely beautiful puppy. It was white, with brown spots, with a long tail, compared to his short body. As he started to grow, he lost his charm and his beauty. I sadly accepted that fact, but to me, his beauty was interior. His affection and intelligence, a human could not surpass, with the exception of my wife. I always thought that Buster lived to please me. It seemed that that was his only desire, to make my life easier and to make me happy. The first few weeks of his life, he spent on my lap. Gradually, he started to find ways to help me. I remember the day I installed the doggie door on the rear kitchen door. I was an optimistic fool, trying to convince myself about the future size of Buster. In the end, the size of that doggie door was too big for my dog.

He quickly learned to get my shoes, the paper, the remote control and other little things. But his favorite was his leash, he loved to take me out for a walk. I know that's the way he saw it. Loyalty was his main distinctive trait. When they mention that the dog is man's best friend, they fell short with Buster. With the love from my wife and my dog, being a paraplegic wasn't a big deal. With their help, I didn't miss my former life.

A few months later, with the help from a friend I adapted a small pick-up truck so I could drive it. With an automatic transmission  and a hand-brake lever. When we finished, I started my new project . . .  plastic and aluminum recycling collection. Soon, we started to make good bucks. I know some people saw us like a freak show, but I didn't care, neither did Buster. We had a regular route. We were popular in the neighborhood and some people began to save the recycling for us instead of giving it away to the city. At first, I felt that my wife was ashamed of my new profession, but that feeling eventually disappeared.

Buster was medium size, or even smaller, by the time he was four years old, I even thought he had started to shrink. But my love for him was continuously growing.

Every time I went for a haircut, Buster acted as if he was the father and I was his kid. He kept a close eye on the barber's scissors, never losing sight of me. He was popular at the post office and at the bank. He seemed to smile to all people who pet him. Everybody loved Buster. It appeared that his common looks didn't matter. He was the most popular dog in our neighborhood.

And I was happy, as happy as I have ever been, probably even more.

Until one day, until one miserable and sad day. Why can't happiness last forever?

After a rigorous hard day in our collection business, Buster and I, went for a walk. We were only a couple of blocks away from home when we saw a pit-bull crossing our path. I knew Buster could easily die defending me, and I could also die defending him. We both knew that. Buster wasn't a coward, on the contrary. But this dog was the devil himself, mean and malicious, strong and ugly. A stray dog on the prowl. He looked like he was on a mission, on a killing spree, dogs or humans, or anything. I knew right away that we were in deep trouble. For the first time in a long time, I wished I wasn't in a wheelchair.

Buster shared my bad vibrations. The devil was approaching us, and we didn't see any signs of salvation. We were in need of a miracle. Then Buster stepped in front of me, like a shield. Oh, how I wished I were out of my chair. The pit-bull ran toward us, and in a few seconds he was killing my Buster. My faithful dog was losing the fight. On this occasion, I knew he couldn't win. I was yelling, screaming and crying. Nobody could help us, even if somebody had been present. 

An instant later, they rolled to the paved road. Then a car ran over them, both of them howled in pain, but only the pit-bull stood up and ran away. Buster remained immobile on the road. If the dog hadn't killed Buster, the car did. Other cars stopped, and people came out of their houses. Too late, my dog could not be saved now.

Somebody helped me put Buster on my lap. I tried to wake him with my loud weeping and my begging, but it was in vain, I couldn't bring him back. A couple of kids joined me on my way back to my house.They were crying too.

Seeing my wife's emotional pain augmented my suffering. I kept crying uncontrollably until I came to the realization that he was dead, and I needed to bury him. I decided not to call the animal shelter or the dog pound. My dog was not a simple dog. I needed to be present in the burial process. My final decision was to bury Buster in our back yard. My wife didn't object to my plan. We both dug up the hole. We kept crying the whole time.

At dinnertime, my wife tried to keep the routine and served us dinner, we didn't touch our plates. We kept crying quietly. I became even more melancholic, when I threw our leftovers in the trash, because we always gave them to Buster.

The day had been long, and the night was longer, an interminable agony.

When bedtime came, I felt even sadder. Buster had always laid beside our bed, on my side. I kept on crying all night long, quietly, trying not to disrupt my wife's sleep. But I knew she was also crying. My pillow was soaking wet, inundated with my sorrow. At times, my sobbing seemed to subside. But when another forgotten trick by Buster came to my mind, I started again. I couldn't help it. My mind was busy, only thinking about Buster.

The numbness I started to feel on my right hand made me forget about Buster for a second. I began to do my usual exercise, opening and closing my hand in a fast sequence. I turned to see my hand in the semi-darkness of the room, and there he was! Buster was licking my hand, I thought I was dreaming. After a few seconds, I noticed I wasn't. He was right there! Bloodied and covered in wet dirt, licking my hand. My wife heard me and turned the lights on. We saw his entire trail of mud on the white carpet. In an instant, we were with him on the floor hugging and kissing him.

Then, I realized that the saddest day of my life was also the happiest. He was bloody and dirty, he had bite marks all over his body. Then we took him to the bathtub. I forgot about my wheelchair and dragged myself all the way to the bathroom. I kept bathing him for the rest of the night. We didn't go back to bed. As I was washing him, he was licking my face returning the favor, clearly thanking me. He had a speedy recovery and stayed with us for another six years.

We never filled the hole back in the backyard, and it became his favorite spot to lie down to rest.



EDMUNDO BARRAZA
Visalia, CA.08-20-2012
edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com