“Come on, Buster, lets go home,” murmured Alfred Whitmore, stroking the scruffy dogs head. “We cant bring her back, no matter how much we wish it.”
The mongrel, called Buster, lifted his gaze and locked eyes with his master. He understoodhis beloved mistress was gone. No matter how long he stood by the gravestone, she would never return to ruffle his ears or slip him biscuits under the table, the ones he adored but Alfred forbade. The dog sighed deeply, and together they walked toward the bus stop. There was no hurry. The man and his dog moved slowly, lost in memories of the one they had loved most.
***
Alfred had lived with his darling Lizzieas he always called herfor forty-eight years. A good life, a happy one. Only, God had never blessed them with children.
“Suppose it wasnt meant to be,” Lizzie would say. “Maybe we werent worthy, up there in the heavens, to raise children of our own.”
That was why shed refused to adopt, though Alfred wouldnt have minded. No use forcing it, not when she felt no pull toward anothers child. At first, theyd held out hope. Then, one day, Lizzie brought home a scrawny stray. Rufus, their first pet, became their child. When he passed of old age, they wept and swore never to get anotherthe pain was too great. But two years later, Lizzie carried in a tiny kitten.
“Cats live long,” shed smiled. “Fluffy might even outlive us.”
Twenty happy years they had with Fluffy. But though cats outlast dogs, they dont outlast humans. Burying their “child” crushed them. Lizzie fell ill soon afterperhaps grief gnawed at her aging body. Alfred suggested another kitten. She refused.
“Were old, love. Soon itll be our timewhy leave an animal orphaned? No, Alfred, no more pets. Just us, till the end.”
He agreed. He loved his Lizzie too much to argue.
Two years passed.
One day, strolling in the park, they stopped at an ice cream van. Alfred handed Lizzie her favourite vanilla cone, and they turned toward the fountainuntil a rustling behind the stall froze them. A skeletal puppy gnawed at a discarded wrapper, so thin its head seemed too large for its body. Spotting them, the dog dropped the wrapper and fixed them with a lookpleading, accusing.
“Alfred,” Lizzie whispered fiercely, gripping his arm, “promise me youll live at least ten more years!”
He balked, but her eyes burned with urgency, so he blurted:
“I promise!”
She smiled, scooped up the scruffy thing, and cradled it. That was how Buster came into their lives.
Alfred sighed and glanced at Buster. The dog lifted his head, eyes locking onto his masters as if reading his thoughts: *Yes, yesthats exactly how it was.*
Five more happy years followed, full of shaggy, wagging joy named Buster. Then, three months ago, Lizzie was gone.
A quiet groan escaped Alfred. Buster howled in reply.
“Were orphans now, Buster,” Alfred murmured.
*”Awooo!”* the dog wailed.
They visited Lizzies grave often. It was all they could do.
Now, the bus stop. Alfred slumped onto the bench. A dull ache curled in his chest. *Tea. Sweet tea. Thatll help.* He rubbed his breastbone absently. Buster didnt sithe circled the bench, whining, nudging Alfreds face.
“Its fine, Buster. Look, the bus is coming.”
Forty minutes on the bus. The pain worsened. Buster pressed his muzzle into Alfreds knees.
“Nearly there, boy”
Thensharp agony. Darkness. Alfred collapsed.
Buster barked frantically. Passengers turned.
“Hes ill!”
The bus halted. People clustered around Alfred as they waited for the ambulance. Buster fell silent, sitting close, eyes begging strangers: *Help him. Please.*
They loaded Alfred into the ambulance. Buster knew he couldnt follow. The vehicle sped offthe same direction as the bus. So Buster climbed back inside. He thought the bus would chase the ambulance all the way.
“Dont kick the dog out,” someone told the conductor. “He knows the way home. Ive seen them on this route.”
They let him stay.
When the bus looped back to the cemetery, Buster stepped off. He stood motionless, nose pointed toward the hospital, eyes seeing nothing of the worldonly something deeper, something no human could fathom.
And in that moment, Buster fought. He felt the doctors werent enough. His own strength falteredso he ran to the only one who could still help, though she lay beneath stone.
Civilisation has severed man from nature. Humans no longer believe in energy, in silent pleas across distances. But animals know. If they could speak, theyd tell us secrets beyond measure.
***
Alfred walked a long, dark hall. Ahead, on sunlit grass, stood Lizzieyoung again. He hurried toward her, hand outstretchedthen froze.
Lizzie glared.
“Dont lie to me! You promised ten years! Its only been five! Will you abandon Buster? Go back!”
His hand fell. He couldnt defy her. Turning, he trudged into the dark.
“Hes got a pulse,” the doctor exhaled.
***
A month later, Alfred left the hospital. He felt strongbut one thought gnawed: *Wheres Buster? Is he alive? How do I find him?*
Unbeknownst to Alfred, Buster had become famous in their small town. After pulling Alfred back from death, the dog knew he only had to wait. His master *would* returnto the place theyd parted: the bus. So Buster rode the Number 8 route daily, the one that went to the cemetery. Word spread fast. No one shooed him away; drivers and passengers fed him.
Dogs know how to wait. And Buster waited.
***
Alfred stepped into his silent flat. Dead flowers. Rotten bin. His foot struck Busters empty bowl. It clattered.
“Buster, where *are* you?” he cried.
At that moment, in a Number 8 bus, a dog barked wildly.
*Here! Here, master!*
Next day, Alfred posted “Lost Dog” flyers, then sat by the silent phone. By evening, despairing, he burrowed under the blanket. *Why did I survive? For whom?*
Ah, Alfredwho reads flyers in the internet age? The towns online forums *buzzed* with tales of the bus-riding dog. But Alfred had no computer. He and Lizzie had never needed one.
Next morning, he rode the bus to the cemeteryto tell Lizzie about Buster. Hard as it was, he owed her the truth. Theyd never kept secrets.
Slumped in his seat, he overheard two women:
“always carry treats now, in case I see him. Poor thing.”
“Tried taking him home. He wont come.”
“Why would he? Hes waiting for his master.”
“Its been weeks. Maybe the mans dead. My grandkids say its all over the internet”
“Excuse me,” Alfred cut in, heart pounding. “What dog?”
“You new here? A month ago, a man collapsed on this bus. Ambulance took him, and his dogs ridden this route ever since. Poor souls probably dead”
“Not dead,” Alfred whispered. *”Im* his master. Just out of hospital.”
Across the road, another Number 8 bus braked. Pressed to the windowBuster.
“There! Thats the dog!” a woman shrieked. “Stop the bus! The owners here!”
Passengers erupted. The driver halted. The conductor shouted into her phone:
“Dave, stop! The dogs master is *here!*”
People spilled onto the road, blocking traffic. Drivers cursedthen fell silent, stepping out.
And there, in the middle of the street, Alfred sat on the tarmac, arms around Busters neck.
By weeks end, the whole town buzzed: *The dog waited. Two hearts reunited.*
For a fleeting moment, something long forgotten shimmered in the aira warmth, a unity, a joy lost in modern life, where everyone fends for themselves.
