in the Tristan and Isolde myth, who took away all sorrow and replaced it with joy. Busby—my little fairy Affen, a comedian in a matchbox.
The cat looked exactly like Queen Victoria observing Jerry Lewis. Since then, they’ve come to share my bed with me, and they often chase each other. Busby leaves the room in hot pursuit of Buki, and aminute later they return, this time with Buki as the chaser. Busby defends the house against the mail—and the mailman. Steinway used to do that, too. I can tell you that the Bouvier’s booming bark com- pared to the Affenpinscher’s soprano trill is like the Conquest of White Fang compared to a garden gnome in a tutu. (And I mean a gnome twirling a cocktail umbrella.) I can’t imagine how I missed this breed until now. Busby is a priceless, affectionate Fabergé egg. He has a repertoire of frequent vocalizations, including what I call conversational grunts. Not a bark—certainly not a growl—but a sort of ongoing commen- tary on the events of his day. I may train him for nursing home visits as the pandemic recedes. I’m sure he would brighten the day for anybody in a place like that. What- ever he does, he is like themagical dog
All this is enhanced by their passion for toys. Busby has a stable of, may- be, a dozen and a half toys. His cur- rent favorite is a miniature stuffed sloth. Busby adores Slothie, along with Green Bone, Lil Lion, Pink Pig, Porky, and more. The toys are stored in a floor-level shelf in my small of- fice. In the morning, Busby will start a process of taking one of these jew- els into my study and leaving it there. Throughout the day, individual toys continue to be purposefully carried into that room. By the evening, there are, perhaps, a dozen of them strewn around. Busby then takes them, puts them into a pile, and finishes by lying on top of them, gnawing his rawhide bone. He might as well be rolling in gold coins on a silken bed. On the day Busby arrived, he was in- troduced to my cat, Buki, who had spent his entire thirteen years with massive Bouviers. I suspect Buki didn’t recognize Busby as a dog. Busby knocked himself out from the beginning to persuade Buki that they should be playmates. He did play bows and three-ring aerial twirls while Buki sat a few feet away and watched.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Kate Gilpin is a writer, pianist, teacher, and political observer. She is a native Californian and a longtime resident of the San Francisco Bay Area. She re- cently made the transition from Bou- viers to an Affenpinscher, and is an enthusiastic learner. Her Persian cat has decided that the Affenpinscher is acceptable, even if he is too small to be a dog. T op N otch T oys , J une 2021 • 37
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