Buster Oliver Schmidt, The Best Dog Ever

Today, I had to say goodbye to my constant companion.

Whenever I experience inner turmoil, I scribble thoughts on pages in my journal. I’ve been doing this since I was 19, and it has always helped me “write through it.” Today, I’m writing because I had to make the heartbreakingly difficult decision to say goodbye to my 8-year-old Boston Terrier, Buster.

Growing up in small apartments, I was never allowed to have pets except for goldfish. However, my dad loved animals and would bring home an array of them: a stray German Shepherd, ducklings and their mama (my mom was not pleased to find that he was nurturing them in our bathtub), and, at the railroad tower where he worked, he unofficially adopted a cat, named her Minnie, and took care of her and her kittens. He taught me how to love animals, and I am grateful for it.

When my dad passed away suddenly in 2002, I never thought I’d recover from the loss. We were thick as thieves. A few days after his funeral, we adopted two Shih Tzu sibling puppies, Maggie and Otis, aptly named after Otis Redding and the song “Maggie May” by Rod Stewart. They were chaotic, tiny furballs who made a mess, chewed through molding, and we adored them. We lost Maggie suddenly when she was 16 years old, and, true to form, I brought my then 10-year-old son with me to adopt a puppy. When we saw a tiny brown and white Boston Terrier puppy with floppy ears, we knew he was the one. I asked my son what we should name him, and without hesitation, he said, “He looks like a Buster.” Indeed.

Anyone who has followed me on social media over the past eight years has seen photos of the petty crimes Buster committed as a puppy: the pillow he tore apart, spreading feathers over an entire room, the candy he stole, the toothbrushes he was obsessed with, and my daughter’s beloved stuffed animal “Piggy,” who Buster thought was a snack. You’ll be happy to know that Piggy was promptly sent to the stuffed animal hospital in California and fully recovered (What we parents do for our kids!).

When we had to move to a new town in a different part of New Jersey, Buster comforted each of us as we adjusted. It was 2018, and I had fallen into the worst depressive episode of my life, sending me to months of outpatient treatment. Every day when I returned from five hours of group therapy, I’d sit with Buster (or he sat with me) to decompress. During the pandemic, when everything was on lockdown, Buster was happy to have everyone home for a long time.

Eventually, my kids returned to school, and my spouse returned to the office. Day after day, Buster and I would wake up, eat breakfast, and talk a walk along the bay where I live. Sometimes, I’d try to teach him how to play “fetch” on my lawn. He was great at fetching but not skilled in “returning,” so neighbors would see me running after my dog, who was incredibly proud that he had a big stick in his mouth. Sometimes, he’d come into my office and drop a toy at my feet as if to say, “Take a break. Come play with me.” I always did.

Buster was sad when my son left for college last summer. He’d often sit outside my son’s bedroom door and stare at it, willing his brother to come home. Every day when my daughter returned from school this year, Buster would bark until she picked him up and held him as if he were a toddler. He wanted to look out the window. Can you blame him?

We had several nicknames for Buster: Mr. Chubbs, Busty, Mooshie, and more. He answered to all of them. He’d jump on my bed at night and decide who to cuddle with, usually my husband. I’d joke that Dave was Buster’s mother. I still think he is. However, Buster knew when I was anxious or depressed and always stuck close to me during those times. He wasn’t officially designated as an emotional support animal, but he was my emotional support animal.

Boston Terriers are a special breed. Their facial expressions are humanlike. If Buster were happy, you’d see him smile. If he were sad, you’d see it on his face immediately.

Three weeks ago, we learned that Buster had lymphoma. We decided as a family that we wouldn’t pursue chemotherapy. Instead, the vet prescribed medicine that would make Buster more comfortable. We knew we didn’t have much time left with him, but he seemed okay after the medication kicked in. You wouldn’t have known he was sick if you had seen him a week ago. That changed over the weekend.

Over the past few days, I woke up at 5 am because something told me I needed to check on my dog. This morning, I took Buster outside, saw the sunrise, looked at his face, and knew it was time. When I cried, he licked my tears. When my husband and I brought him to the vet’s office, they were kind and allowed us to sit on a blanket with Buster in their family room. I hugged him, kissed him, told him how much I loved him and said goodbye to the best boy who ever lived.

Buster Oliver Schmidt, you will be missed more than I could ever express in words. I love you.