My Dog Butters

My first job was as a waitress at Big League Burgers. It was a tiny restaurant in my tiny hometown, and I was a senior in high school.

One day, a friend of mine from church came in to eat, telling me about a couple that were selling miniature cocker spaniel puppies at the gas station, lamenting that she didn't have the money to buy one. Being much more of a cat person (and having never personally owned a dog, merely claiming the family dog), I smiled and nodded and finished work. Mom came and picked me after my shift was over, noticing on the drive home that there were indeed puppies for sale. Mom is a sucker for cuddly little animals, so we stopped and looked them over. I stockpile money, being quite frugal, so I had enough tips on me to buy one. 

Honestly, I don't know what was going through my mind when I picked up the only golden puppy they had. The rest were sleek and shiny, with black fur and intelligent eyes. This little guy stood out like a light, big green eyes, a stocky body, and a piggy snort when he breathed. I think at the time I thought Mom wanted him but didn't want to spend the money, especially not on another pet without discussing it with Dad first. Mom loved cocker spaniels, had had one in high school and then another a few years before that was tragically hit by a car as just a teeny puppy. 

One way or another, we were driving home a few minutes later with a fat, squirmy puppy in my arms.

He was AKC registered, but what I didn't know at the time was that you should always be leery of dogs breed to be "miniature". The runts of the litter may be adorably petite, but they carry the worst pick from the genetic grab bag, and there was one health problem after another. He got cherry eyes immediately, and his ears were prone to infection. His belly hung only a quarter inch from the ground and his legs were just a few inches long each. Every summer, he would have to be shaved several times and kept indoors because all that wavy yellow hair was too hot for the Texas heat. Probably the worst thing was his breathing--snorting, grunting, wheezing, rattling gasps for air, like a overweight pig of a man continuously snoring every second of every day. His whole body worked at drawing a single breath, and you could hear him coming from a mile away.

But he was a sweet dog. A genuinely sweet, intelligent, loving animal that tried hard to overcome his rather goofy packaging. 

On his registration papers, he was Pope Dickens. I liked the formality and that it sounded like an English punk band. Informally, he was Butters, so named after a character in the cartoon South Park (a show I enjoyed at the time but subsequently found horrendous and disturbing). Kind of the butt of family jokes, my little pig of a dog with the stubby little legs and raspy, rattly snuffle.

Butters died last night. He had a heat stroke because he is an overly furred animal in the most inhospitable of states. He was young, only 7 or 8 years old, too young to go yet. While I am used to burying pets (my tragic luck with animals is well documented), it sucks to have to say goodbye to my old friend. 

--Andie--