When I was in second grade, my family was looking for a new dog. The local pet store had recently gotten a litter of silky terriers, but my mom was more interested in yorkies. Still, the little brown and black terriers were cute, and they looked a bit like yorkies, so we returned several times to see them. Every time we went in, I wanted to hold one, and every time I left, the puppies would whine and cry. After several months, only one remained. Mom and Dad decided to buy him, despite Mom's preference of female dogs.

Dad joked that we should name him Buster after the dummy on MythBusters. I voted for "Baxter," but when "Buster" stuck, I gleefully ran around screaming "Buster Baxter Leverington." He looked more like a "Buster" anyway.

Buster didn't stay brown and black. When his hair grew out, it turned grey. But when it was cut short, it would return to its black color. He had large brown eyes that were the true definition of "puppy dog eyes." Still, he wasn't as innocent as his eyes would suggest.

Buster caused a lot of problems over the years. He didn't like my brother, although, in his defense, my brother was never particularly nice to him. When Mom would say, "Buster, kennel up," he would back into his cage, growling and snarling. He had a way of looking at people sideways when he was mad so that the white around his eyes would show.

Buster also wanted to run. If he ever got the opportunity to escape the house, he would take it without a second thought. He once got out through the open back door and took off running down the gravel road. I threw on flip flops, yelling for Mom and Dad, and chased after him. He made it up to the highway and didn't stop there. My parents managed to catch him a little ways down the road. When these escapes took place, the only thing we could really do was get the bucket of dog food and bang around inside of it with the scoop and scream, "Buster, do you want some food?"

Another time, he got away in Waterloo. He ran across Burton Avenue and ended up in someone's yard. Luckily, he paused long enough to sniff around that I was able to catch him. My parents kept saying that if he ever escaped one more time, they would just let him go, but they never did.

Buster had a way of inhaling his food. It took him about thirty seconds to empty his dog dish at mealtimes. Mom hid the giant bags of dog food in what we call "Dad's bathroom," where the door was supposed to remain shut at all times. And, for the most part, it did. There were those rare moments of unnatural silence in our home which were always appreciated...until the realization that something was terribly wrong set in. Many times, the "something" that was terribly wrong was that the bathroom door had been left open. Buster could be found there, tearing into the bag of dog food and scarfing down record amounts until he was inevitably discovered with a somewhat rounder belly.

Since mealtimes were his favorite times, it's no surprise that Buster got excited when he heard the sound of that scoop hitting the food in the container we kept on the kitchen counter. It had a very distinct, almost musical quality to it. The next sound to be heard was the frantic scraping of toenails on linoleum. Then Buster, on his short legs, would go flying in the air, his front paws bouncing off of Mom's backside. The music of the scoop against the food was paired with the sound of Buster's hind legs hitting the linoleum every few seconds.

One of my favorite things about Buster was his "stretch" routine. I'm not sure how or when this routine came about, but he did it for years. If I said, "Buster, can you stretch?" he'd get down on his belly, front paws forward and back legs stretched behind him, and pull himself forward using his paws. His short tail would wag, and I would scratch his back, and he would make his way across the floor, sometimes even turning around at the end of the hallway to go back the other way.

Another one of my favorite things was his eagerness to go out for walks. He would pant and strain at the leash, practically choking himself, pushing forward through grass taller than him. Dad would take him for a walk around the farm, and Buster would come back, exhausted, but happy. His ears would perk up at the sound of the word "walk." Dad would say, "Buster, do you want to go for a W-A-L-K?" I think Buster was smart enough to know what Dad was spelling, because his ears would pop up, and his tail would wag.

Buster died last week, and while this saddens my whole family, he's no longer suffering as he was in his last week. Although he was sick and most likely in pain, he still managed to do his signature stretch for me the last time I saw him, and his tongue was still soft and wet when he licked my fingers.

The thing about Buster is that he was not defined by his death. I have not forgotten all the times that he snapped at me and drew blood or how exhausting it was to chase him every time he took off running. Buster was defined by his moodiness, how feisty he was, and the fact that not everyone thought of him as a nice dog like I did. I'm sure he did not always love us, when he was left with the vet while we went on vacation, when we left him in his cage, or when he had to wait a little too long to be fed. But I know he loved us as much as anyone or anything could.