Buster the dog, as I’ve learned in our brief acquaintance, might as well be her child; he is spoiled and completely devoted to her. Making his dinner is a several-step process that both my husband and I learned with my mother criticizing us at every step. “Dan, would you consider that a heaping scoop?” “He can’t eat it dry, you need to add some hot water so it makes a kind of gravy, and where are the meat scraps I saved to put on top?” Before my mother leaves the house, she turns on the television—always PBS—in the hopes that he will find the voices comforting and feel less lonely. (“Why PBS?”
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