Buster
by SiriusDF

Thursday Prompt for 10/11/2018
Prompt word: Grand

The eleventh year of my childhood was simply the grandest. That was the year we lived by Puget Sound across from Seattle where my parents took up temporary residence in an impressive house on Bainbridge Island.

And of course Buster, the dog. Sort of a dog.

It was March of 1949 and though the War had ended four years ago, my parents continued to work for a government agency that had no name, but was spoken of as *the Black Chamber** in hushed whispers.

Memories of living in a crowded apartment near Washington DC evaporated when I jumped out of my parent's DeSota to see our house and it's counterpart. Both bungalows were the only houses on a short, Douglas fir and Alder laden street that dead ended near a cliff overlooking the Sound.

So much room to roam! And just two houses on the entire block! Two storied and porch enclosed, they were really grand mini mansions once belonging to a Lumber magnate and a sawmill supervisor. Both had been donated to the agency to house my parents and the refugee neighbors in the second. A Mrs. Yhoundeh and her husband, Mr. N.

Mrs. Yhoundeh had aging white hair with a bony pale face that made her look a bit like a deer. Mr. N, who's first name was the unpronounceable Nyarlathotep, it's easier to call him Mr. N, had a face that seemed to change all the time. He was tall, thin and smiled a lot.

Said to come from Hyperborea, I think that's somewhere in eastern Europe, they had been persuaded by my parent's 'agency' to avoid allying themselves with the now defeated Axis powers and with the War over both were now DE or DE's. It's like a displaced person (DP) but different. The couple lived under the supervision of my parent's agency until they could be 'returned'.

And they had a dog. Buster. He lived in a dilapidated playhouse behind the main house. The playhouse door had been removed and a carved wood sign with painted letters, Buster, mounted on the door frame.

I fondly remember my first encounter with Buster. It was an overcast misty day. We were being moved in and while the furniture was being taken in by movers with glazed over eyes, I stood near my parent's DeSota, idly bouncing a ball off the bumper and catching it.

The activity caught Buster's attention, he poked his long head out of the playhouse doorway, and galloped across the yard and down to the street to greet me.

At first, I was startled by his appearance. As big as a pony with a doggish head and funny ears, eight domed eyes like a spider and wriggly mouth parts, like those on a grasshopper. He wagged a huge scaly tail that turned furry, then his mouth became a doggy tongue dangling from a dark muzzle.

With a friendly play bow and expression that made me smile, I tossed the ball to Buster. Our game of fetch attracted my parent's attention. They came out and stood on the sidewalk next to the car, demanding what was going on.

I said I was playing with the new neighbor's dog, pointing to Buster, who now looked like a large, brownish tan mutt with two dark spots above his eyes. Was that okay?

Father seemed bothered about Buster. But Mother was more reassured once she held what looked like a glowing pencil in front of her, eyeing it and Buster, who all this time, sat seated with his tail happily thwap thwapping against the wet pavement.

Mother then laid down the law and rules. I could play with Buster during the day in our yard and street. Buster could accompany me down to the Sound. In the evenings, Buster had to go back to his yard and house before it was 'raised up'. And under no circumstances, was I to feed Buster or enter Mrs. Yhoundeh and Mr. N's house.

And so, Buster became my dog for that year. It wasn't as if Mrs. Yhoundeh and Mr. N were cruel to Buster. They were of the opinion that beings like Buster needed only a roof, bed and some food. That was not enough, for Buster wanted things a dog desired; having someone to play with, follow about and being in the company of someone like me or a group. Our household became Buster's daytime haunt.

The days were fondly packed with Buster shadowing my footsteps. Even when I was taking thrice weekly tutoring classes in our house's main drawing room, I'd be sitting at the table listening to the Tutor droning a lecture and homework. While Buster lay quietly curled up next to my chair.

Sometimes, Buster would help me. During a difficult test, I'd hear his tail thump against my chair leg, like a whisper, giving me an 'answer' even though the Tutor appeared to neither hear or notice it.

Soon, the session would end and Buster and myself would barrel out the back door to play. A pause to slip on galosh like wellies, a quick run to the street's end, clambering down the nearby bluff to the tidal shoreline of Bainbridge island. Under overcast skies, we'd range across the cobblestone and till stained beach, often finding sandy pockets that Buster liked to dig into. Finds ranged from old coins, rusty harpoons, oysters and the occasional geoduck. Buster liked eating geoducks, shell and all, with a loud crunch.

Though I wasn't supposed to feed Buster, I figured it was okay as long as I didn't hand Buster any treats and Buster fed himself.

When we played in the street during the mornings, Mrs. Yhoundeh could be seen hanging laundry on a line in her backyard. A thing she did every day, whether it was misting, raining or a rare clear day. Often, she would be singing. A wordless tune that made all the birds go quiet, even the raucous crows. Sometimes Mr. N would be out as well, gardening in a plot that had thorny roses and trimming hawthorns.

Soon, evening approached and I'd say goodbye to Buster who trotted back to his playhouse that served as a doghouse. He'd settle inside while Father and Mother came out to observe 'the raising'. At twilight, a dark outline would grow around the perimeter of the Mrs. Yhoundeh and Mr. N's house. Then, the entire house, yard, Douglas fir trees, bushes, along with a huge chunk of ground underneath, rose silently up into the air, like a floating unpotted plant. You could see the water and sewer pipes stretch underneath, still connected. The concrete stairway from the street extended like a window shade as the house arose, remaining attached to both yard and street.

And there the house would remain, suspended in mid air, along with it's foundation and a dozen feet of ground for the night till Dawn, when it would settle back down on it's own. No one supervising it's return to earth. The first time I saw a 'raising', I said it was like Magic. Father snorted upon hearing that, replying it was merely Baba Yaga support using Applied Principles.

The milkman delivering our milk appeared to not notice the floating house if he came before it settled back down. Once in a while, a substitute Milkman would awaken the household with frantic knocks. Father would answer the door, listening to the new Milkman pointing to the floating house while asking a bleary eyed Father if he saw it was well. Father would lean forward, whisper in the man's ear and the milkman would leave, eyes glazed, never to speak of the house again.

Summer came. That year brought many sunny days with few clouds and no tutoring sessions to interrupt long days that seemed like blissful eternity. Whether it was rummaging in the back yard with Buster, for he now sported a Belgian Malinois shepherd appearance after I admired a picture of a similar dog in a library book, or messing about on the tidal flats.

My parents had acquired a new electronic gizmo. A television set. A big, polished wood cabinet with carved grill-work and embedded in the center like a cyclops eye was a then, huge, 10 inch roundish television tube. My father put up an antenna that managed to receive the only TV station around, Seattle's KING TV. With summer evening sun streaming through the pines, I'd be seated several feet away, watching [i]Roar of the Rails[/i] with Buster curled up next to me, just as enraptured. Though he'd blink his eyes as if complaining the screen seemed to flicker too much for his taste.

Programs were short, lasting just a half hour and soon my parents would tell me to let Buster outside so he could return home. As I opened the door one July evening, I heard them discuss plans of moving back to Virginia in the Fall. Another group had been assigned to watch Mrs. Yhoundeh and Mr. N.

That had me thinking, what about Buster? Who would be looking after Buster?

Those thoughts continued to plague me till that one night.

It was on a mid-summer's evening, that I told my folks I was not feeling too well and excused myself after supper. I opened the back door as if to let Buster out, but gestured for him to stay as I closed it. We sneaked upstairs, Buster silently padding behind me. That day had been quite warm by Puget Sound standards and I sat on the bed with the window next to it wide open, watching the sun slowly set behind the fir trees outlining the Olympic range. Buster sat next to me, listening to me sighing with tear streamed eyes at the thought that soon we'd be moving and Buster would have no one to keep him company.

My eyelids drooped and I laid down in my bed, Buster curled up next to me, dog warmth lulling me to sleep. Dreams of playing with Buster and hearing him say over and over that I was not to worry.

It was almost Dawn when I felt Buster's cold nose poke me in the ear. Now awake, he started whining in a pleading tone. I got up and put a robe over my pajamas while Buster paced back and forth in an agitated manner. Quite unlike his normally calm self. Holding my fingers to my lips and saying quiet, we silently went down the back steps. I opened the back door and Buster raced ahead as I followed in slippers and robed pajamas.

Buster's house was still floating above the ground as Buster shed his dog form, returning to his scaly multi-eyed, pony sized shape. Instead of racing up the stretch out steps. Buster ran right underneath the floating ground! He stopped at some point and leaped upward, scrambling and vanishing!

Just then, house and ground slowly floated to ground, anchoring itself!

What happened to Buster?

Heart pounding I stood by the side of my house, gazing across the street, ears picking up the faint sound of a screen door being opened and clanging shut.

Mr. N. came out into his backyard, dressed in a long, plaid bathrobe, shoulders leaning to the side from holding a heavy five gallon bucket in one hand and what looked like fireplace tongs carried in the other hand.

To my grand relief, I saw a horse like head with eight spider eyes poking out of the playhouse doorway. A pony sized shape stretching forth, wriggly mouth parts flung wide open in a yawn as if the beast had spent a restful night in the playhouse. Scaly tail wagging as Mr. N. worked fireplace tongs to pluck out a bucketful of cone shaped things with wriggly tentacles on one end and into a large bowl in front of the playhouse. Mr. N then stood still to observe the creature dive it's mandible packed muzzle into the bowl filled with screeching things and devour them with a noisy crunch.

Some time back, Buster must have dug a deep shaft inside his playhouse. Perfect cover to allow him to sneak back and climb up the shaft. Allowing him to gleefully play the charade of having slept in his playhouse through the night.

I turned around, striding upon the wet grass, pajama legs soaked up to my ankles, smiling as I headed towards my back door. Feeling much better that there was no need to worry about Buster.

An Eldritch 'dog' as clever as that could take care of himself anywhere!