An essay I wrote about a childhood experience involving my grandfather

For Grandpa Dean

Buster was Uncle Derek’s dog, his faithful companion since childhood, bought for him by my Grandpa Dean. Buster, from what I’ve heard, was a good dog and Derek naturally loved him very much, and I imagine my sentimental Grandfather glowed with fondness towards Buster. As Derek grew older and eventually left for college, Buster transitioned from Derek’s dog to the family dog, accompanying Grandpa to feed cows or bail hay, a consistent joyful presence at Grandpa’s house when family and I came to visit.

I was young and innocent, fresh-faced and excited as any infant could possibly be. I especially loved Buster—he was my favorite aspect of Grandpa’s. Of course, in my selfish, immature perception of the world, Buster, I decided, must love me as well. Thus, against all his rebellions and protests, I adopted Buster as my own, destined to be by my side and I at his, forever as long as I was at Grandpa’s house.

Buster was a good sport and took his enslavement in stride. He shuddered as I pet him and whined as I pulled his tail and barked when I chased him around, but endured all the same: a certain, strange kind of care. He knew I enjoyed myself and, as an extension of Derek and Grandpa’s love for me, endured.

Around the time I was one, Buster, now old and mostly blind and deaf, bent over to eat and, in his vulnerable position, I approached him. Buster, who had demonstrated so much endurance and patience, who had tried so hard to be kind, in one rush, condemned himself and rendered his efforts pointless. In a confused, hungry flash, Buster snapped.

I have a scar on my lip. I often romanticize it—I think it makes me look cool, rugged in a way. But, in moments of sobriety and remembrance, the price Buster paid for that scar and the ones on my forehead, nose, cheek, and temple is evidently apparent. I condemn myself for tarnishing Buster’s memory and priding myself on something so grave--a mark that should be held with gruesome memories and regret--yet find myself doing it all the same.

Mom, Dad, and Grandma took me to the hospital, Derek was at school, Grandpa Dean stayed behind and tamed the dog. He penned Buster back and, being a thoughtful, moral man, I imagine his mind already tormented him for what needed to be done.

Derek and I were told that Buster was hit by a truck. In hindsight, I don’t understand why I believed it for so long. And so, I dirtied Buster’s legacy by telling stories about a “mean old dog who got what was coming for him” around campfires and when asked about my scars. Age has granted me wisdom and consideration, and, eventually, I deduced Buster’s true fate.

Grandpa Dean took Buster to the barn and shot the dog.

Grandpa Dean watched one of the things he loved the most die, and, more so, was forced to play the blameful part of judge, jury, and executioner to an innocent, confused animal. To no fault of his own nor Buster’s, Grandpa Dean looked the dog in the eye and fired his father’s old .22, in one fell swoop sacrificing his conscience to rid the world of possible danger. It’s a gun that I’ve fired many times on many visits to Grandpa’s. I don’t think I’d like to anymore.

I think of Buster’s story often now, of my actions inadvertently leading to Buster’s death, the hurt on my uncle, and the blot on my grandfather’s conscience. I feel something when telling the story, yet can’t quite figure out what it is. Satisfaction? No. Guilt? Not quite. I often say that when I know what Buster’s life means, I’ll be a truly wise man. As I get older, I come closer and closer to the reality--the story is about Buster, but the true story is Grandpa Dean.

Grandpa Dean is a funny, kind, light-hearted man, a prime example that the strongest people often wear the best of masks. On the surface, Grandpa Dean couldn’t hurt a fly, but when the world demands the fly, Grandpa Dean will take the mantle. It’s an unwanted, painful, nasty task, but Grandpa Dean does it all the same. Why? Because he can endure. But truly why? Because he couldn’t sleep letting anybody else shoulder that burden. He fought in Iraq because someone had to, he tends to his cows because someone needs to; he will carry the world on his shoulders simply because a dog bit his grandchild.

I frequently tell myself ‘once more unto the breach,’ empty words stolen from Henry V. Their borrowed meaning and imagined context lights a fire in my gut and sparks a passion to perform. For a fleeting moment, I am King Henry, boldly carrying the load and proclaiming my might.

But I’ve never entered the breach; on that day, 18 years ago, Grandpa Dean did. The breach is an ugly place, spewing regret and darkness and leaves the stench of remorse on whoever crosses through it. Many think themselves worthy, but very few actually are. I pretend I charge valiantly and romantically into it, but the truth is

I never shot the dog.

Grandpa Dean did.