Our beloved Buster died last Friday, just after he attained his majority–he was twenty-one.
That’s the guess, anyway–he came into my life when Betsy Hearne, out with her dog, saw him in a Chicago park for two days running and brought him into our office. For me. (If Betsy Hearne ever suggests you do something, trust me, do it.) The vet who checked him out then said he seemed just about a year old. We will never know from whence he came, but he was fixed and housebroken and well-fed; my guess is that he got out and lost. (My friend Nina used to tease me that there was a child in Chicago who sobbed herself every night to sleep asking “Where’s b-b-b-Brownie?”)
Thanks to all of his friends, especially Horn Book alumnae Anita Burkam, Claire Gross, Marilyn Bousquin, and the late Amy Chamberlain, who kept an eye on him when I had to go out of town. If I do say so myself, he had a great life.
Updated to add the original glamor shot: