Chapter 4 #2
It’s touch-and-go for a while, but I somehow get it put together. Then I wedge it right next to my bed, so Buster won’t be alone.
He sniffs the crate, circles it, and then climbs into my bed and lies down right on my pillow, as if to say, “Nice try, human, but I’ve got your number.”
I try to be firm. I lift him gently, set him in the crate, and give him the pizza-shaped chew toy for comfort.
He stares at me, unblinking, then lets out a whimper so soul-shredding that I almost scoop him up right then and there.
“Don’t give in,” I whisper to myself. “You’re the boss here. You can do this.”
Buster whimpers again, louder this time. His entire face crumples, and the effect is devastating.
I pace the room, tablet in hand, scrolling through endless forums that assure me he’ll adapt quickly if I’m strong.
By eleven pm, the crying has escalated to full-throttle beagle baying, which is less “adorable whimper” and more “demonic foghorn.” Oh boy.
Thank goodness tonight is one of Hunter’s twenty-four-hour shifts, so at least he isn’t home to hear Buster’s cries.
Yes, I know his schedule. And yes, I know what that says about me.
I sit beside the crate, stroking his head through the slats and murmuring nonsense—“It’s okay, baby. You’re not alone. It’s just for tonight. I love you already. Don’t hate me”—until I realize I’m crying, too. Great. Now we’re two helpless wrecks, sobbing in stereo.
The books say to ignore the crying. The books have clearly never met Buster. After another half hour, I can’t take it anymore. I open the crate and reach in for my little buddy.
“Just for tonight,” I whisper, and fold him into my arms.
Tomorrow, I’ll be strong. Tomorrow, I’ll read every book, enforce every boundary, and ace this whole pet-parent thing.
But tonight, we can be a little bit soft.
I carry Buster to bed, tuck him under the covers, and fall asleep to the steady sound of his snoring.
If this is what failure feels like, I’ll take it.
The next night, I’m determined to do this right.
Buster gets his dinner on time. We play a long, exhausting game of fetch-the-squeaker, and I walk him around the block twice to burn off any last molecules of energy.
I even follow the “gentle transitions” protocol from the dog book, building positive crate associations by hiding treats inside and showering him with praise every time he steps in.
I set the crate at the foot of my bed, tuck in the blanket with a little stuffed fox, and cue up some “Calm Dog Sleep” music on my phone.
It feels like overkill, but I’m committed. I am the alpha here. I’m in charge of this household, and tonight, Buster will sleep in his crate if it kills us both.
At first, he goes along with it. He curls up, ears flat, nose buried in the crook of his front paws. I tiptoe to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and come back to find him staring at me, wide-eyed but silent.
I slide under the covers, switch off the light, and brace myself for the worst.
Ten minutes pass. I peek over the edge. Still there, still sad, but holding it together.
Twenty minutes. A whimper, so soft it’s almost a hiccup.
Thirty minutes. A low, mournful moan.
At the forty-minute mark, he ramps up to a full-throated beagle howl. Ouch. My eardrums throb from his rapidly increasing cries.
I try every trick I can think of.
I drop bits of cheese through the bars.
I stick my fingers inside and stroke his head, whispering, “It’s okay, little guy. I’m right here.”
I hum a lullaby. Buster pauses, listening, then howls louder—like he’s harmonizing, or maybe just telling me to stop. His little howl ends with a painful groan that almost sounds like a human moaning.
I’m trying to be tough and let him cry it out. But Buster’s cries have a way of reaching in and turning all my determination to goo. I keep picturing him abandoned in that cardboard box, alone in the dark, convinced no one is coming back.
When he cries out sharply and ends it with several little hiccup-y squeaks, I hit my limit. With a shaky breath, I kneel by the crate and unlatch the door. Buster tumbles into my arms, body trembling, tail wagging so hard I almost laugh.
“Okay, okay,” I say, burying my face in his fur. “You win. You can sleep with me tonight.”
He wriggles, pressing his cold nose against my neck, and lets out a contented snuffle. It’s like flipping a switch—one-minute pure despair, the next absolute peace.
I carry him to bed, lay him beside me, and he immediately curls into a warm, snoring crescent against my side.
I wipe my eyes, laugh at myself, and swear I’ll be stronger tomorrow. But for now, this is enough.
That’s when the knock comes.
It’s not a polite “oh, sorry to disturb you” kind of knock. It’s a knock that means business. Buster perks up, ears alert, and I feel my pulse thump in my throat.
I glance at the clock. Ten-fifty-two pm.
For a moment, I freeze—pajamas askew, eyes red, dog snuggling against my chest. I am not prepared to see another human tonight, least of all a neighbor. Especially not him.
Another knock, louder this time. Buster instantly picks up on my distress and starts his whimpering howls all over again.
Damn it. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I call, voice ragged.