“Dogs have owners; cats have staff,” and I have worked for some wonderful cats in my time. The one I loved best was named Buster. Buster had an unusual mind. He didn’t think like other cats; he didn’t act like other cats. Maybe that’s why I loved him so.
We got Buster from the county animal shelter. We usually get our cats from the county animal shelter. That way we save a life -- and we’ve gotten some great cats that way. One fall, after our cat had died and left a big hole in our lives, we went to the animal shelter for a kitten. There were no kittens.
I was about to give up, but my husband Bill kept saying, “That one over there looks good.” And he did. He was about three-quarters grown, grey and white, and had a sweet, hopeful expression on his little face. Also, he was scheduled to be killed the next day. There was no time for us to go home and meditate on the matter.
We went to the people in charge and said, “We’ll take that one.”
As we and the cat rode home, Bill picked out his name. We take turns naming our cats, and it was Bill’s turn. “We’ll call him Buster,” he said.
“Buster?”
“When you’re mad at me, you say, ‘See here, Buster,’ and I’d like to have someone else around named Buster.”
When we got Buster home, he of course had to inspect the house. After a look around -- one briefer than that of most cats -- he went into my mother’s bedroom, where the sun was shining warmly on her pink bedspread. He jumped onto the bed and promptly went to sleep in a patch of sunlight, sprawled out on his back, paws up, the way a cat sprawls when he’s feeling completely safe and happy.
“Home at last,” he was saying. “Home at last.”
BUSTER IS WELCOMED TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD
At our house Buster had fo
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