My Buddy Butch - Confessions of a New Dog Dad
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Copyright © 2009 by Jeffrey E. Marginean.
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ISBN-10:
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2008920437
My Buddy Butch
Confessions of a New Dog Dad
By Jeff Marginean
For Mom
Irene Marginean
(1925 - 2003)
Authors Note
Preface
Chapter
1 - Why
Chapter 2 - Tiny Buttons
Chapter 3 - The Chosen
One
Chapter 4 - The Homecoming Dance
Chapter 5 - Terminator
Puppy
Chapter 6 - Doctor, Doctor
Chapter 7 - Policing the
Perimeter
Chapter 8 - Grooming,
Dating, and the Chick Magnet
Chapter 9 - The Smartest Dog of All Time
Chapter 10 -
Size Matters
Chapter 11 - Dead Already?
Chapter 12 - Dog
Sitters
Chapter 13 - The Tri-Athlete
Chapter 14 - Big
Balls, Balloons, and Throwing Up
Chapter 15 -
Trick or Treat
Chapter 16 - Sounds in the Night
Chapter 17 -
Yard Work, Hoses, and
Sprinklers
Chapter 18 - Butch
Country
Chapter 19 - Killing the Locals
Chapter 20 - Bombs
Bursting in Air
Chapter 21 - Storms
Chapter 22 - Do Dogs Go to Heaven?
Chapter 23 - Torpedo in the Water
Chapter 24 - A Conversation with Butch
Chapter
25 - A Lifetime
Chapter 26 - Bonding
Chapter 27 - Single
Parents - I Salute You
Chapter 28 - A Normal
Day
Chapter 29 - Flashbacks
Chapter 30 - Change
MBB Radio
Acknowledgments
About the Author
AUTHORS NOTE
This book is a work of nonfiction. It was written for the purpose of having a little fun, documenting an important part of my life, the beginning of Butch's new life, and hopefully transferring some of the knowledge that I have obtained while trying to do a good job of raising him. It contains opinions, reflections, and commentary on life, love, and learning to live with a new, hairy little addition to my world, from a single person’s perspective. All of the people, places, and stories in this book are real although some of the names were changed. The situations, however unbelievable, did happen. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it!
I grew up in a relatively normal family, which consisted of Mom, Dad, and us four kids. I, being the youngest of the brood, was constantly peppered with the obligatory, “You were spoiled!” from everyone while I was growing up. The closest to me in age was my sister Jeanne but there was still a substantial spread of eight years between us. Judy, Jim, Jeanne, and then me was the order. And yes, OK, our names all start with J, how quaint. I’ve heard that a lot also over the years! Effectively, I was an only child, for a number of years, being the last one at home. With a large spread of years between us four, the others were out of the house and I was the last one left.
Dad was always interested in animals. He’s always been interested in them and we used to watch animal shows together on TV every week. I can remember watching Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins and then Disney every Sunday night while growing up. I can also remember the stories about Mom sending Dad to the store to get a broom and Dad walking down the alley behind our house with a broom on one shoulder and a monkey on the other. He had purchased or borrowed the monkey to see what Moms reaction would be. Well, as you can imagine, she took the broom from him and made him take the monkey back. I’m not sure if she just told him to take it back or actually chased him down the alley with the broom! Anyway, there were a myriad of stories that reflected Dads love of animals. Knowing this, it was a natural course of events for my folks to eventually own a dog and they did, much to Moms dismay. I think I inherited some of Dads love of animals because, for as long as I have been on my own, I have entertained the thought of owning a dog. Having not had a dog since I was a kid, and being a single guy constantly on the run, I was a little leery about the logistics of taking care of a new dog or puppy and not being able to spend enough time with him or her. I had thought about it for many years and had gone through the bevy of easy to-take-care-of pets; albeit the not-too-cuddly type.
I owned a parakeet that didn’t do much but fly around and soil its food dish. I can’t remember naming it although it’s not likely it would have remembered its name anyway. I can’t remember how long it lived but I did feel bad when it died. I buried it in the backyard and it was probably dug up and eaten by the first skunk or opossum that passed by. I also had a conure, which is like a small parrot. I named it Pepita, which was kind of stupid now that I think of it, even though it was from Central America or so I was told, but it was a female. Those babies aren’t cheap. I probably had $1,700 wrapped up in a full-blown cage and setup. Being the tinkerer that I am, I had set up an elaborate playground for it with ladders, bells, mirrors, and the like, only to have it turned into sawdust. These birds’ beaks are very strong and could probably crush or break your finger if it got hold of it. It could crack a small walnut with no problem at all. This made doing any kind of training precarious at best. I did manage to teach her how to give a kiss without having my eyes pecked out. It was amazing to watch and I did teach her some tricks but after having her for about four years, I got tired of hitting the ceiling every morning, awakened from a sound sleep to the head-splitting sound of absolute screaming coming from the other room. You see, these birds are a lot like roosters that crow at the crack of dawn. Being a sizable bird, about the size of a large pigeon, it had quite a set of lungs and the screaming was ear-piercing. It was kind of like hearing someone shriek who has been hit in the head with an axe. This was not my cup of tea, so I ended up giving it away to a girl who already had a cockatoo. You know, the large white birds like Baretta had on TV. I knew that she had the knowledge to take care of the bird, so I thought it would be best if Pepita and I parted ways before I served her up for an early Thanksgiving dinner. Pepita was a nice bird and I did like her but she was not my idea of a companion.
Next was the obligatory ten-gallon aquarium that I still have to this day. It is packed up neatly in the basement, eagerly awaiting the call of the fishes once again. I have had aquariums off and on since high school. Fish are fairly enjoyable, easy to take care of, and relaxing to watch, but once again not a real companion type pet. Besides, I haven’t hugged a fish lately, well not the animal kind anyway, and they were a little too small to get both arms around. Plus they stink when they are out of water, so: no fish hugging.
No, a dog was the answer. Being severely allergic to cats, I could never bring myself to even think of getting one. This has been my downfall on many first dates with girls who had cats. Once I start sneezing and the eyes start watering, it’s all over, much to my dating dilemma and peril. It’s not that I don’t like cats. They are generally pretty nice, independent, and relatively aloof which could be a problem or a blessing. Playing ball with an eager, friendly dog, whether it is big or small, is a lot more fun than playing with a cat. With a cat you throw the ball and they lie there looking at you like Yeah right, you expect me to get that don’t you? Well, think again, captain. You can go get it yourself because I’m not moving! Most definitely a dog was just what the doctor ordered, and how could it be anything less (or more) than a Boston terrier? Being relatively familiar with the breed from growing up with one for my first ten or eleven years on Earth, I have some of my best memories from playing with that little dog. So why not make some more new memories. For some reason, I feel that it must have been Gods way of telling me that the time was right and it took the loss of my dear mother to put the wheels in motion.
Why
Well, that was it. Mom was gone. On April 8th, 2003, a Tuesday I recall at 8:00 p.m. almost exactly, my mom passed away into the next life. She was eight days away from her seventy-eighth birthday. Having struggled for the previous couple of years with cancer on her liver, chemo treatments, and radiation therapy, it seemed to be the only release that would ease her daily pain. We were all there, my sisters Jeanne and Judy, my brother Jim, Judy’s husband Ronnie and of course Dad.
We have had other relatives pass away before, grandparents, aunts, and uncles but this was a blow to our core family like no other. Death had never before touched us like this. It was a typical funeral with friends, flowers, and food. At the church service, I gave the memorial (eulogy) which was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I suppose I felt that in some way I owed it to Mom and our family to try and sum up the situation, and seventy-seven years of her life, in a satisfactory way. Leaving it to someone else to do this was not acceptable to me. I did not want anything left out and at the same time it should not drag on either. I thought that it was a little too impersonal to have a priest who really didn’t know her all that well deliver the memorial. It was not hard to write but it was very difficult to deliver, in church, with everyone there who meant the most to her. I almost got through it without choking up but had to stop to compose myself just before the end. The priest who presided over the funeral told me when we were making the arrangements that it would be difficult to do, and even asked me a few times if I was sure I wanted to do it. I just couldn’t see letting anyone else do it. This was probably because I felt that it was the last thing I would ever be able to do for her.
Naturally we all went through the proverbial family difficulties and the rearranging of responsibilities for a short period of time after Mom passed, but we all eventually got back to our normal routines (as if anything would ever be normal again). Normal for me, anyway, would most definitely be a new experience.
Dad started settling into a routine and generally took the bright-side approach to everything outwardly but we all knew he was struggling with his new single situation. Saying goodbye to the love of your life after fifty-nine years is probably something some of us will never have to do. It is really difficult to say how someone who has had to do this should act. I don’t think that he knew what to do with himself after letting it sink in that Mom was really gone.
In any case, the days came and passed for a couple of months and during this time my sister Judy mentioned that she thought it would be a good idea if we were to buy Dad a dog - a Boston terrier. Dad used to raise Bostons years ago and she thought that it would get his mind off of everything, giving him something to do every day. I thought it was a good idea but did not think the time was right just yet. Luckily, Judy made a few calls anyway,
It was at this point that I remembered Babe, my first dog - an inherited by default Boston terrier. Being born into the family with Babe already firmly entrenched as the family pet, I had little choice. I was probably four or five years old when I first began interacting with Babe. She was a great dog who was docile, loving, and playful. I remember her being very well trained, never barked, and I do not recall her ever relieving herself in the old house on Arlington. Dad had trained her not to come out of the kitchen. The kitchen had a linoleum floor and the other rooms were carpeted so she would not come out of that kitchen for anyone except Mom and occasionally Dad. I was the newcomer as far as Babe was concerned and she accepted me as part of the family. I guess I claim her as my dog at that time because I was the youngest and everyone else was already used to her when I was born. She was a good seven years old before I was even old enough to play with her. At that time, I guess because I was a little tyke myself, I remember her being bigger than Boston terriers usually get. I have since come to realize that I was much smaller than humans get and she just looked bigger.
Babe was not the snarling, barking, slobbering, vicious looking bulldog or watchdog a boy of that age might like to parade around the neighborhood, striking fear into the hearts of would-be bullies and friends alike. I can attest to this fact by recalling the day I had to actually drag poor Babe out of our yard, half way down the street, after being made fun of by the older kids and trying to get her to bite them. All they had to do was yell at her before this already terrified terrier wrapped the leash around my ankles and pulled my legs right out from under me, skinning up knees, elbows, and any other fleshy part that hit the sidewalk. With me chasing after her, skinned up knees and all, she would beat a path right to our back door. Oh the humiliation for a nine year old to endure! My fierce protector was an old, nearly toothless, ugly little dog, that wouldn’t even venture out of the yard, let alone sic 'em on command.
A few years later, Babe had to be put to sleep because of a series of seizures she began having at the ripe old age of thirteen. Dad said that she may have lived longer had she not run head-on smack into the hubcap on the front wheel of a moving car at our cottage at the lake. She never went out of the yard at home but at the lake we would take her on the boat with us, which meant a walk down to the water. On the way back to the cottage one day after a boat ride, she must have heard us talking or playing at the cottage and ran up the hill onto the road at the exact same time a car was passing by. She smashed right into the front left hubcap of that car. Yes, they had hubcaps in those days! Dad thought she was dead. She just lay there on the road; the car did not even know something made contact and just kept on going. Dad picked her up, sneaked her by us into the kitchen. He felt her heartbeat and could tell she was breathing. He splashed some water on her head and waved some hamburger under her nose and she woke up. She was knocked out cold by a car! She really dodged a bullet and Dad knew it. She was a tough little dog but it finally caught up with her.
One winter Monday evening a few years later I can remember lying on the floor watching Laugh-In (this really dates me!) when Dad came into the room and said that Babe was real sick and asked if it was OK to take her to the vet. I knew Babe was sick since I had come home from school. Neither mom nor Jeanne would let me go down the basement to see what was wrong with her. They said that she might bite me. Not really understanding that animals can get a bit cranky when they are sick, I was upset that they wouldn’t let me see her. I was mad at both of them because I wanted to try to help her somehow. How a child my age could help is beyond me but just seeing her was the goal. I knew when Dad said that he was taking her to the vet that it was not good. What he was really saying was for my sister Jeanne and me to come and see Babe for the last time to say goodbye.
I don’t recall how I felt at the time but I do remember trying to be a grown up about the whole situation. I was about ten years old and since my sister was crying, I was beginning to put the whole picture together that Babe was not coming back. Dad later told me about when he took Babe to the vet to be put to sleep. When he placed her on the floor inside the vet’s operating room, the vet asked him if he wanted to stay. As Dad turned toward the vet, he saw Babe struggling to get up and come toward him to follow him. When he saw this, he couldn’t take it and said “No, I’d better leave.” I’ve thought of that often and how difficult it must have been to leave Babe behind and walk away, knowing that she wanted nothing more than to walk out with him. I still well up just thinking about that scenario and that inevitable situation that all dog owners must face, young and old alike. She lived to the ripe old age of thirteen, a good long time for a dog.
After Babe died we had a couple of other dogs, a little fuzz ball named Cocoa and a miniature poodle named Pepsi that I really didn’t pay much attention to. After Babe was put to sleep, my best buddy was gone. I really did not take much of an interest in other dogs that were brought into the family. They just didn’t seem to measure up to Babe. So for many years after that I just did not pay much attention to, or even think about, having a pet. I always thought that if I did have a pet I would like another Boston terrier or a bulldog but that was purely off the cuff thinking. I was much too busy.
For Dad in his new situation, with Mom gone and being all alone for the first time, it was a good idea to get him a little companion. Before I knew it, Judy had arranged to see a little Boston terrier breeder here in Ohio not far from Dads house. She really hit a home run by thinking of this when she did.
Tiny Buttons
It was a hot August day when my sister Judy called me at work and said, “Hey, I made an appointment with the breeder to see one of the Boston terrier pups. They only have one left so we better go.” A short drive into the country, which turned into a long drive trying to following my two sisters in the car ahead of me. They eventually led me to a medium-sized blue house that sat on a nice big lot.
I did not see any dogs out running around but I could hear a few barking so I assumed the dogs were kept in a pen. As we walked up the stairs to the front porch, I could feel the excitement starting to build. I was getting excited about the whole idea and I was the one who didn’t think it was the right time to get Dad a dog. We entered the house and after a few polite introductions, the woman disappeared behind what I think was a dining room and was gone for a couple of minutes. When she returned, she produced the tiniest of creatures I had ever seen that was called a dog! This little thing was about the size of a gerbil and resembled some type of rodent. It was a tiny female Boston terrier that was not quite three weeks old and she was the last of the litter to be sold. She was about the size of my hand and was probably the runt of the litter. She was roughly six inches long by three inches wide with eyes that were barely open and had a little nub that was supposed to be a tail. As I stood there holding this tiny new life in my hand, the little thing started to shiver and began crawling up my arm until it could bury its little head in the crease of my inner elbow that rested against my side. With her little head buried in my side and my right hand covering her entire body, she warmed up enough to fall right to sleep.
Well, that was all it took for this hard-lined skeptic of the whole Dog for Dad idea to buckle under this extreme puppy pressure. We spoke with the lady for awhile about the details, such as waiting the eight weeks until the pup was on solid food, AKC registration, and other care questions. Then I asked to see the mother of this puppy. The woman left the room again and returned with a normal-sized Boston terrier with very nice markings, all black with white around the neck, white feet and white about half way up the legs. She had the trademark white stripe in the middle of her head. It was Babe! She looked just like Babe and I couldn’t believe it. She was a good-looking clean dog with a sweet temperament. We left a deposit and told the woman to let us know when we could come and get the puppy. After this encounter, I was unbelievably excited about the whole idea. Even to the point of wanting my own dog again! My heart just sank to leave that little ball of fur behind. I couldn’t understand it. I was supposed to be the tough guy, business minded, self-sufficient individual on the run. To feel this way, at least in recent years, was a foreign experience to me. At this point, I thought this couldn’t be better for Dad, although I still didn’t know how it would be received being a surprise to him.
A few weeks later, my sister called me at work and said that she had spoken to the breeder and the puppy was ready for pickup. She asked if I wanted to go and I told her to go ahead without me and take her over and that I’ll stop by Dad’s the next day or so. Trying to curb my enthusiasm, I forced myself not to rush right over to see our new arrival. I was excited about the new addition and really could not wait to see her but I waited until the next evening after work to stop by Dad’s and say hi. His house is only five minutes from my office.
When I stopped by the next day, Dad had a big smile on his face and I could see he was beaming. He absolutely loved that little dog. I said, “I hear we have a new addition!” He replied, “Yeah, she is a cute little thing isn’t she.” As he said that, a little black and white head popped out from his sweater to see what was going on. I asked what he named her and he said, “Well, when I first saw her, it looked like someone had sewed her nose on like a button, so I decided to call her Buttons.” I thought, Buttons? …I thought Babe was a sissy name, but Buttons? Really? She was so tiny, and after all it was a girl dog, so I thought, OK, it seems to fit. Like I had any say in the matter anyway. Just the same, I loved that little dog right off the bat. I mean seriously, how could anyone resist this cute little puppy? Once again I felt my self-perceived manhood taking a real beating as I recognized how I felt for this little helpless thing. I liked her even though I knew she would never be the snarling, barking, fierce attack dog that I wanted in my youth, which would love only me, of course!
Watching this playful little puppy walk around and tug on a rope made me stop and think about how completely and utterly dependent on Dad she would be. I’m sure that he knew what he was in for, although when we had puppies many years earlier, he was always working so he never had the opportunity to take care of them by himself. One of us kids would take care of them which had started way before I was even born. You can imagine the stories that this led to!
I can remember Mom mentioning it and now Dad tells the story of my sister Judy who used to put their small white Boston terrier named Beauty in a baby carriage and push her around wearing a baby bonnet. I’m not sure exactly who was wearing the bonnet but I laugh just thinking about it. She would put a bonnet on this dog and push it around the neighborhood. It wasn’t like she was fifteen or anything. She was just a child at the time. That must have been a sight! Talking to Judy, she was too young to remember, probably three or four years old but I guess that little dog followed her everywhere and would even hop into the carriage whenever Judy would play with it.
I’m not even sure the name of the dog was Beauty. It could have been Spot because Dad says that it was all white except for a black spot on the back of its neck. Sounds like an inverse Boston terrier to me! Makes me wonder how much money I could make if I did that now! Put Butch in a carriage and wear a bonnet. Maybe not even at the same time. I thought about taking a picture of Butch wearing a bonnet but thought that it would be too emasculating for him and would result in years of doggie psycho-therapy just to reestablish his role as a male dog in society. Better yet, a picture of me wearing the bonnet would get more laughs and probably a lot of sympathy. I could possibly wear the bonnet while mowing my lawn. My neighbors would say, “Look at poor Jeff - the cheese has finally slid off his cracker!” Nevertheless, watching Buttons play and seeing how trusting, dependent, and affectionate she was may have stirred my protective instinct or something because in that split second my indifference toward having a dog of my own again was completely wiped away. I could see the endless hours of fun and laughing not to mention the chick magnet that dogs are! Being single, it never hurts to use all the advantages I can get!
Through the coming months, we watched Buttons grow and I was over at Dads as much as possible. I would stop for lunch or dinner just to say hi and play with the dog. She was very feisty for a little dog and wanted to play constantly. Every time I went over there she would jump up, bark, growl, and paw at me until I would pet her. She was just the tiniest little thing - it was funny to watch her try and be ferocious. One day while we were playing on the side porch, she fell off of the carpet covered cement step. She staggered around, and kept shaking her head like she was drunk, Oh no! I thought. I killed her! She fell off the step and bumped her head on the cement floor. It did have a thin layer of outdoor carpet covering it but it was still cement nonetheless. It was the turf-style carpet so it was pretty thin. She fell off the step while I was playing with her so it was my fault! She whimpered, so I scooped her up and rubbed her head a little and she was just fine. She started playing within a few minutes. Whew! I told Dad to keep an eye on her because she hit her head but we have never seen anything wrong since then. Hence the saying, "Don't play on the steps!" Where have we all heard that before?
Being so active every minute of the day, Buttons wore Dad out. She wanted to play constantly and he would try to keep up to tire her out. At eighty years old, I’m sure that it was hard for him to play every time she wanted to. When it came time to have her neutered in the six month time frame, he decided that he would breed her before he got her fixed because he said it was healthier for her and he wanted to give me one of the pups for helping him since Mom had passed away. I think he saw how much I really loved Buttons and thought that I wanted one but would not ask. At that point I was hooked and really did want to have a dog but I kept saying, “I’ll see when the time comes.” Secretly I was glad he insisted because I couldn’t wait to have one of my own.
In the spring of 2004, after Dad returned from Florida with Buttons, he decided that he would breed her when she came into heat. He took her to our vet, Dr. Dave Soehnlen of Soehnlen's Veterinary Clinic. He had a young male Boston terrier that he wanted to breed when Dad was ready to breed Buttons. In early May, Buttons came into heat so Dad took her to be bred. It was perfect timing. The gestation period for dogs, whether large or small, is about nine weeks, so Buttons had her C-section and the new batch of pups was born on July 13th, 2004. She had five pups in her first litter. Because Boston terriers and bulldogs in general have such large heads, even as pups, it makes it difficult if not impossible for the mother to have an easy delivery on her own. This is why most vets will perform a C-section to eliminate the suffering of the birth and possible harm to the mother as well as the pups. Now, during this time the mother is naturally sedated and does not know anything that is going on and, being that this was Buttons first delivery, imagine her surprise to wake up and find five strange little creatures pressing up against her! I was not there for the birth as I was once again out of town on business. Little did I realize then, that everything would change for me in the next few months.
Telling the story about when he brought the pups home, Dad recounts how Buttons ran under the bed and was terrified of them. At that point, he thought that this was going to be a big problem because it looked as if Buttons might reject them, not knowing why they are even there. After some coaxing, Buttons came out from under the bed and Dad brought the pups to her lining them up and they began to suckle. Buttons was shaking like the temperature was thirty below zero, scared to death! The nursing must have kicked in her motherly instinct because Dad said after about ten minutes of feeding, she began to clean up the puppies and groom them. From that point on, Buttons was the perfect mother, caring for and feeding them, knowing just what to do and just when to do it. She was such a sweet little dog that she never even became over-protective of the pups when we were around. After all, we were part of her family also, and were always there as far back as she could remember. What harm could we be! At the same time, we were not overly exuberant in handling the pups and Dad was just as happy to watch them fidget around in the cage except when he needed to pick them up to feed them with an eyedropper or give them some vitamins.
Even though these little balls of fur were fun to watch grow and I know Dad had fun taking care of them, they were a real handful for him. I usually went over a couple times a week to see what was going on and help when I could. With all of his experience in breeding Boston terriers, he had the matter well in hand. He even told me about how he used to feed the smaller pups with an eyedropper for the first few days if they would not eat on their own. He learned many things from his friend Sam while he bred and raised Boston terriers over fifty years ago.
As he did right from the day my sister brought Buttons home, Dad continued chiding me about picking one out. To be honest, I think I was probably more scared about the prospect of not knowing how to properly take care of him (I always knew I wanted a male) even though I secretly went and bought a couple of very good books on Boston terriers that were written by veterinarians and breeders. Reading the books it seemed a rather daunting task to take care of this animal and I was also aware of the responsibility, for possibly the next fifteen years. I told myself that, if I did choose one of these pups, I would be making a lifetime commitment and would be personally responsible for the day-to-day caring and well-being of this dog. I must have realized that this would be something like my own child and I would never give or sell this animal to anyone for any reason. Thinking of this dog as my child seemed really ridiculous to me at the time and I remember thinking, I hated it when I have seen people talk to their pets like they really understand what is being said. When I used to go to the pet store for fish or aquarium equipment, I would see people with all sorts of different dogs and I would hear grown adults say things like, “Mommy and Daddy are going to feed you some good nummy nums tonight!” Then ask the question, “Would Fluffy like that?” Like the dog is really thinking in an English accent "Mmm, yes mummy, nummy nums would be simply divine for this evenings dining, thank you!"
Nummy nums? You’ve got to be kidding me! What, exactly, is that supposed to mean? At the risk of projectile vomiting, I had to turn and walk away very quickly. I remember thinking at the time, Oh brother, there is no way I could even think of saying something like that to my own kid let alone a dog. I often thought I would try it on my fish though to see if they would understand but they were just interested in eating and swimming. They were not much for dialog and besides that I would have to yell really loud for them to hear me through the glass. Not a good policy with neighbors in close proximity who know you live alone and already think you are little nuts.
I had already been thinking about the commitment I would be making and the new enormous responsibility I would have since Dad first mentioned that he would give me a pup when he bred Buttons. I stood there staring at this writhing pile of puppies and wondered how I would ever make a choice among these five little miracles. Not taking something like this very lightly, I sat and considered the pros and cons. Should I pick one or just tell him to sell them all? I really couldn’t resist those little helpless balls of fur and I did want one in the worst way. How would I even pick one out?
The Chosen One
After all of the
time I had progressed through various stages of life and had not
given dogs much thought, I had an indescribable feeling come over me
that I, well, I can’t describe. It was kind of a heart-warming or
maybe it was a heart-rending feeling that I had when I would see
these tiny puppies. There was just something about them being so
completely helpless that made me feel a little strange and I never
could quite put my finger on it.
I had spent a lot of time over at Dads house after the pups were born, watching them grow and playing with them. Most people probably already know that all they do for the first couple of weeks, or until their eyes open, is sleep, eat, and deposit what they’ve eaten all over the place. These puppies were no exception. I spent a few evenings each week after work just sitting on the floor next to them trying to decide which one, if any, I should choose for my own. I just watched them, seeing how they moved around and interacted with each other. I couldn’t help but marvel at these little miracles that were twisting and squirming all over the place in front of me. Each one was different from the others even if ever so slightly. It’s funny how some people would say they all looked alike and yet we could tell them apart like night and day. It must be much like parents with identical twins who know exactly which is which.
There were three males and two females. One male and one female were substantially larger than the others. All were healthy and most were pretty spunky except for the one I called Napoleon. With his white markings on his face and head, he looked like he was wearing a hat like Napoleon used to wear in the French army. Our Napoleon was the smallest pup of the litter and Dad had noticed that Buttons took extra special care of him. He was kind of a loner for the most part and over the weeks as he grew, we could see his personality start to take shape. He would play with the others for a while and then go back into the cage and fall asleep. He was very persistent when wrestling with the others and even though he was the smallest, no matter how many times he was knocked down he would get right back up and get into the fight until he was tired of it or smelled food! He was always a little different from the others and even the color of his fur was a deep wavy black like none of the others.
The others were black also but if you looked closely you could see a few brindle colored hairs in their coat. They all had very nice markings in this litter, black with white stripes on their heads all the way down to their little black noses. They had white feet and white halfway up their legs - except for the largest male. He looked like he was wearing black dress pants on his front legs with white shoes. He even had a black dot right in the middle on the top of his head in the center of the white stripe between his ears. I was told later that this is called a Hagerty mark. The dot was supposedly named for the individual who specifically bred this into his dogs many years ago and it has since been passed down. I’m not sure if it is true or not but I don’t know enough about it so I have no reason to doubt it. It was a perfect little oval shape on the top of his head. I noticed him the very first time I went to see the pups and he was the first one I ever picked up. It was very strange also that this little guy crawled up my arm and buried his head between the crease in my elbow and my side, just like Buttons did the first time that I held her. He was larger than Buttons was even at a week old. He filled my hand completely and stretched out just barely past my wrist.
The choice was simple, really. It was pretty obvious to me by now which one was right for me and I felt very lucky to have the rare opportunity at the pick of the litter. This big guy had to be my choice. He was simply too unique to let go. This was a gift from my Dad that would last the rest of my life.
All of them were cute but since I chose this one he started being cuter than the others, and it was at this point that the parental blindness started to set in and I could hear something that sounded like nummy nums being whispered in my head. Ahh! Oh, no! It was starting to happen. I was transforming into a new dog dad right before my eyes.
At that point, the little guy was still very tiny and his eyes were not yet open. After choosing him out of the five pups, I made sure to go over to Dads place a little more frequently than before and hold the little guy so that he would be used to my scent. Even before I chose this particular pup, I knew that I would name him Butch. Dad and a few other people suggested other names but no one could sway me. It was Butch or nothing.
After a couple of weeks or so, when they began to open their eyes, I was sitting in Dads kitchen holding Butch and petting him while he slept. He was slightly outgrowing his sister who was just about the same size as him at birth. Picking him up to get a closer look at his face, I noticed something peculiar. It looked like there was something wrong with his right eye. It looked a little different than the other and my heart sank, thinking that he was blind at birth in that eye. The typical reaction of a new parent to worry about their newborn hoping that everything was all right. Taking a closer look at the eye I noticed that it was blue. A blue eye on a Boston terrier? I thought. It can’t be. I have never heard of this and haven’t read anything about it in the Boston terrier books that I was combing over. I said, “Dad, he has one blue eye.” Dad replied, “You’re kidding!” Calling him over, I headed outside to the early evening light and held him up so Dad could see and sure enough that eye was definitely blue! “I’ll be, I have never seen anything like that on a Boston terrier. Can he see out of it? I don’t know if we can tell yet,” I replied. From that point, on I was always testing that eye by sneaking my finger up his right side to see if and when he would react. Worrying like a mother hen, it was all I could think about. Combing the Internet, I did find in the breed standard for Boston terriers on the AKC Web site that Eyes blue in color or any trace of blue were a disqualification for a show dog. Reading this did make me feel a little better, knowing that the blue eye was at least a possibility for Butch. I even caught myself praying for my new little buddy to have his sight out of that eye. For many that know me best, this reaction, had they seen it, would have been a bit foreign to them, so this is quite a confession. I think from the second that I chose Butch, my heart was immediately attached to him for life. I never really gave it much thought before but I guess it is like that for many pet owners with dogs or cats that they make a big part of their lives.
For the next few days Butch didn’t seem to notice or care about me running my finger around the right side of his body. I thought, He is blind in that eye and that’s just the way it is. Never once did the thought cross my mind that I would part with this little guy. Choosing one of the other pups over him was just not an option. I will take care of him no matter what, even though the thought of special care intimidated me even more than I was scared at the simple prospect of being responsible for another life. Butch seemed otherwise OK, growing stronger and more adventurous every day. Beginning to walk around and romp with the other pups like nothing was wrong. I would get on the floor to play with all of the pups together, always separating Butch to hold him so he would know me for when the time came to take him home. Then, just when I had reserved myself to the thought of having a dog that was blind in one eye, one day I was on the floor playing with all of them and I saw Butch lying in the middle of them chewing on a toy. One of the pups was sneaking around his right side to try and steal the toy and Butch moved away from him. I thought, He must have heard him sneaking up. So I picked Butch up and put him in my lap, moved my finger around his right side, and he whipped his head around to see what it was! I couldn’t believe it. He can see! I thought. I moved to another room in the house and shut the door to get away from the noise and tried it again. He reeled around when my finger was just forward of his rear leg and pounced, attacking my finger with wolf-like ferocity! (or as much wolf-like ferocity a sixteen ounce, three week old pup could muster). He really can see, and he’s ferocious too! My heart leaped immediately and I had to choke back a little emotion as I realized that Butch was just fine, a perfect little pup with one blue eye! I really thought I must be nuts to have my emotions so wrapped up in this little thing that I have only known for a few weeks but I didn’t care. He could see, he was healthy, and this was good enough for me. I began to see a new window of my life opening, a self-realization that I had needed to recognize for much too long a time: that there are more important things in life than getting ahead in the world. I guess that seeing this simple animal, who knows nothing of this world, begin to see for the first time brought me back to a simpler time in my own life. It reminded me of a time when things were not so complicated. This was the first in a long line of lessons that I would be learning from Butch in the coming months and years and I was as intrigued by it as I was happy about it. Learning that there was so much more about me that I didn’t know was truly a revelation. I consider myself lucky to know that I can still discover my shortcomings, work to repair them, and have the opportunity to take care of this little guy in the process. This little being, this little life, had been placed in my care for some strange reason, but I still had to wonder whether or not I could actually take proper care of this little fellow.
The Homecoming Dance
Anticipating the time when I would bring Butch home to stay with me, I began combing through the books which I had bought. I also searched on the Internet for how others have housed their dogs and what the breeders and veterinarians recommended. Being the type of person who takes six months to research and buy a lousy car, I just had to read absolutely everything that ever existed on the subject of owning a dog before I would feel comfortable enough to bring him home and know he would be safe.
During this time, the pups had aged to about eight or nine weeks and were weaned so Dad began to sell them off, one at a time. Each time someone came over to see them they always wanted to take Butch home with them. Dad would tell them that he was taken and they would have to choose another one. They were disappointed but the pups were all so cute it was not difficult to choose one of the others. The pups sold pretty fast with only two left, Butch and his brother Napoleon, the little one. Dad thought it would be a good idea for my brother to take Napoleon and after some thought my brother Jim decided that he would. This left Butch with Buttons, his mom, and my Dad taking care of them. Because I was not ready to take Butch home full-time at this point, Dad offered to keep him as long as I would like. This gave me the chance to take him to my house over the weekends and to gradually increase the time that I would have him there, while I figured out exactly how to take care of him.
Now, when Dad had all of the pups, they were quite mischievous as puppies can be at times and they would chew on anything, whether it was nailed down or not. One time, during a nice sunny late summer day, Dad took the pups outside to play. They played for awhile until they were tired out and then they went back into the house. When he made sure they were all fed and sleeping in the crate, with the door left open of course, he went to watch TV and take a nap. When he woke up after his nap he went to check on the pups and they were all gone! Including Buttons! The doors were locked, so they didn’t go outside. He looked everywhere for them, under the bed, behind the cage, and behind the dresser. They were nowhere to be found. After about fifteen minutes of looking, he started hearing some faint squealing coming from the headboard of the bed. Kneeling down and taking a closer look under the bed, he saw some lumps moving around inside the box spring! Those little rascals, namely Buttons, had chewed a hole through the material underneath the box spring at the foot of the bed. Then they all crawled in and went to the head of the bed, inside the box spring, where they huddled up and went to sleep. The only way Dad could get them out was to slice open the bottom of the box spring and pull them out one by one. From that point on, and one queen-sized box spring later, it remained a point of contention because the dogs always wanted to get in there and it was the first place Dad looked when he could not find them. It seemed, at first, that Butch was the ringleader in this caper but after watching them one day, we realized that it was Cindy, Butch’s sister, who was the perpetrator. The rest were merely following her to the head of the box spring and then Butch would push his way past the rest to be in the front. Terrific! That’s one more thing to add to the list to puppy-proof my house. I was sure Butch would be doing this while he was still small enough.
I have to say, and even Dad admits that even though they were a lot of work for an eighty year-old man, they sure were a lot of fun for him to watch, all of them playing with each other and sleeping in a little pile. They filled his days nicely with their constant need for attention.
I’m not really the picture-taking type, spending long hours poring over old pictures or planning to take new ones, but I do like staying up-to-date with the current technology. Seeing that these pups were growing fast and that this was a unique time of our lives, I purchased a good digital camera to capture the moments. Now I’m glad I did because someday I’ll be able to look back at this and remember the fun Dad and I had with them.
Naturally, as the pups began to get stronger, they would find plenty of mischief to get into and Butch was no exception. Only a few weeks old and those little dogs were scurrying around and running up and down the hall as fast as they could. Living in my house by myself and keeping things relatively orderly, I knew that I was going to need to really make an effort to outsmart Butch and head off possible chewing problems and other hazards before we did the whole homecoming dance. At first I put his cage in my bedroom and locked him in there overnight just so he would not roam the house and hurt himself while I was asleep. This went on for about six or eight months. Then I would just leave his cage door open at night and he would go in there when he was tired and stay there on his own. Having an extra bedroom in the house, I thought I would fix it up so he could stay in there during the day when I was not home. It had a brand new mattress and box spring along with the usual bedding, which was also new. Becoming the new dog dad and the puppy-proofing engineer that the job called for, I began to devise my plan for his room. I would make it indestructible, so I thought!
Using three sheets of four inch by eight inch plywood, I made a surround for the entire bed. It was about thirty-six inches high on three sides with the fourth side being the wall at the headboard. This was so designed that we would not have any of those box spring episodes that Butch was used to at Dads house. The floor was covered in older carpet and the bedroom set was the one I’ve had since high school so I was not too concerned about it being chewed on. This was Butch’s room and any time someone would come over to my house I pointed it out to them as such and usually got a funny reaction. “Butch’s Room?” they would say, raising an eyebrow. “You mean he has his own room?” I would say “Yeah, why not? I have the extra room and he seems to like it in there when I’m gone.” I guess they thought it strange that this little ten-pound animal had his own room but neither Butch nor I thought that there was anything out of the ordinary.