Memories of Butchie, Part 1

Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really. ~Agnes Sligh Turnbull

It was a cold Saturday night in February. The ground was covered with layers of ice and snow, but with powerful swings of the pick Sean was able to break through the frozen ground to the softer earth down below. He and Brian hollowed out a perfect hole, free of rocks and roots, to be Butchie’s final resting place.

“I don’t want any roots bothering my boy,” Sean declared, his voice cracking.

Although his footprints were still visible in the snow outside my back door, my most loyal friend of the past 14 ½ years was gone.

********
He wasn’t even my dog at first. Amanda and I had moved away to California when Brian was just 9 years old, and my mother tried to fill in the emptiness left in his life by getting him a puppy. Brian named him Butch after his favorite scene from Lady and the Tramp, where the dogs are served dinner behind the Italian restaurant. Tramp had different names, depending upon the restaurant at which he was dining, but the Italian guys called him Butch:

Joe: Here's your bones, Tony.

Tony: Okay, bones. Bones? Whassa matta for you, Joe? I break-a your face-e! Tonight, Butch-a he's-a get the best in the house!

Joe: Okay, Tony! You the boss.
Tony: [Showing Tramp the menu] Now, tell me, what's your pleasure? A la carte? Dinner? [Tramp barks]
Tony: Aha, Okay. Hey, Joe! Butch-a he say he wants-a two spaghetti speciale, heavy on the meats-a ball.
Joe: But Tony, dogs don't a-talk.
Tony: He's a-talkin' to me!
Joe: Okay, he's a-talkin' to you! You the boss!

Butch was a hyper little puppy, so my mother signed him up for obedience school. Although he was a fast learner, he didn’t get enough exercise or attention in those early days. My mom brought him to all of Brian’s soccer practices and football games at first, but once he was a full grown bucking bull of a pup, she couldn’t handle him at the sidelines any more. He had to stay home alone all day, then every night while they were out at practices and games.

By the time I moved back from California, Butchie was an unruly one-year-old. To make matters worse, he was gated in the kitchen, because something about the new carpeting my mother had installed throughout the house made him want to hunch up and take a crap.

Amanda was afraid of him when we first moved back. She was just over two years old, and the very first night back in New York she woke up screaming.

“What’s the matter Little One?”
“Butchie!” she managed to say through heaving tears.

Oh, man. I was afraid of this. The poor little thing was terrified of this animal. He was twice her size and knocked her over whenever he came within a foot of her. And so she was having nightmares already, probably of him biting her and tearing her up or something…

“What happened,” I asked her.
“He… he… he took my piyyow!”
I stifled my laugh. Amanda’s pillow was one of her most treasured possessions. Since I’d imagined the line between dreams and reality to be blurred at the age of two, I very dramatically called down the stairs, “Butchie! You Don’t Take Amanda’s Pillow! That’s Not Yours!”

This seemed to satisfy her, but the next morning she woke up screaming again. This time, I wasn’t quite as horrified. I was actually quite curious to know how her mind was working.

“What’s the matter Little One?”
“Butchie!” she managed to say through heaving tears.
I gasped. “What… did he… DO?!”
“He… he… he took my DONUT!” (Another item cherished by my toddler.)
“Well I am going to yell at him!” And I called dramatically down the stairs again, “Butchie! You Don’t Take Amanda’s Donut! That’s Not Yours!”

After that, she never had another nightmare about him, and they became the best of friends.

But there was still the issue of his lack of socialization. I tried to take him for walks up the street, but he tugged so hard that it was difficult to keep both he and Mandy’s stroller on the side of the busy road. So that was out.

I would try to wear him out in the yard, but he needed to be leashed at all times since the yard wasn’t fenced in. I would kick the ball around with him and try to get him some exercise, but he was young and needed much more.

If you wish the dog to follow you, feed him. - Unknown

Brian eventually trained him to go around the yard without a leash on. Whenever he walked him, he carried a bone in his pocket, so Butchie stayed right by his side. When they got back to the house and into the back door, Butch would get the bone. Eventually, we could just let him out and watch him from the window, and he’d always come back for that bone.

That made it easier to play with him in the yard.

He obsessed over his popped soccer balls and popped basketballs. Before they popped, he would get his teeth stuck in them and have his mouth stuck open until I pried the ball out of his mouth. Once they popped, he would whip them back and forth so hard that he’d be pummeling himself in the face with them. And he would chase them up on the hill until he was thoroughly exhausted and I made him stop and come in the house.

When I found a soccer ball at the pet store with rope around it, it seemed like the perfect toy. He could carry it around easier and I could throw it. But man, did he pummel himself in the head with those things even worse. He loved those balls.

To a dog, motoring isn't just a way of getting from here to there, it's also a thrill and an adventure. The mere jingle of car keys is enough to send most any dog into a whimpering, tail-wagging frenzy. - Jon Winokur

When I finally got a car, our options for playtime increased: I took him for rides. It got him out of the house, it was something different and interesting for him, and I could walk him where I didn’t have to worry about the road so much.

The river was a favorite place for all three of us. It seemed he could smell the river long before we got there. Either that, or he recognized the road that lead to our little patch of sand on the Hudson. By the time I was within a few miles of it, he’d be dancing back and forth in the back seat from one window to another, because he knew where we were going.

I used to have to park near a garbage pail, so when he barreled out of the car he wouldn’t rip my arm off. Dogs always mark a garbage can, so there were plenty of sniffs there to keep him occupied while I rolled up the windows and locked the door.

Whenever we got to our destination, he was so excited he’d have to take a crap. Eventually I recognized the pattern, so I would park far away from other people so they wouldn’t give me that “You’d better clean that up” look. I was always prepared with my plastic bag. But it was still more polite to defile the weeds than the sand of the beach the kids were playing on.

While there, he would happily spend the entire time fetching sticks from the waves.

When I’d tell him “no more,” he’d pick up his stick and bring it into the water himself. When he dropped it, it would start to float, and he’d quickly snatch it up again. He would drop it again, stare at it for a moment as it bobbled in the waves, and then snatch it up before it got away.

Or he would go into the water and bring out every floating stick he could find, and the bigger the better. He'd try to drag an entire tree from the river if he saw one. It wouldn’t be long though before he’d drop the stick at my feet again, desperately wanting another throw.

In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semihuman. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog. - Edward Hoagland

He and Amanda had a favorite game at the river. I’d throw two sticks, one for her and one for Butch. They’d both dash into the water to get them. Butch would only chase after his own stick, and Amanda would only chase hers. Then it would be a race to see who got back to me first. And Butch was fully aware of the competition. He’d be swimming his fastest, shooting her sideways glances as they swam neck and neck and raced out from the waves.

He would chase sticks until he literally made himself sick. One day at the river he threw up and almost passed out. I don’t know if it was heat, exhaustion, or too much river water.

The dog is the god of frolic. - Henry Ward Beecher

Back at home, I got Butchie used to being let into the livingroom with us at night. Eventually, he was given run of the whole house all day and there was no more gating. That helped with his behavior at home.

But he was still a cut up. He didn’t like us all sitting around on the couches watching TV. And he knew what would get us up: He’d steal our shoes. He was smart about it though. If he wanted to get me up, he would steal one of my shoes, bring it over to me and stand there staring at me, wagging his tail. I’d reach for it, of course, and he’d duck out of the way. Eventually there would be a chase, and everyone would be laughing at his antics and he couldn’t be happier.

If he wanted to get my mother off the couch, he would show her one of her shoes. To get her up faster, he’d show her one of her high-heeled work shoes. That never failed to get her attention, although she wouldn’t be laughing.

He could show Amanda any shoe and she’d be pissed. It’s fun, when you’re the youngest in the household, to have someone that ranks below you and you can scold. So any shoe would get her up, and any attention was good attention for Butchie.
Another favorite activity was fetching the newspaper. At first, my mother would bring him outside to the driveway with her when she got the paper, and she’d put it in his mouth so he could carry it in. Eventually, all she had to do was open the front door and say, “get the newspaper!” He’d happily retrieve it and bring it into the house. We’d have to offer him a bone and get it out of his mouth fairly quickly, though, or he’d start tearing into it. This always got a reaction out of us, and that was always his goal.

I think he found it hilarious when I would try not to laugh at him and try to make my girly voice really low: “Heeeeeeeeey! You... Drop it!” He would freeze in his play-bow and just wait. If my mother laughed, the chase was on. If I couldn’t hold my mad face and let a smile slip, the chase was on. Many times, our newspaper reading began with page 3 or 4 since the first few outer layers were torn to shreds.

But he could always make us laugh, and he knew it.

********

He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being; by the way he rests against my leg; by the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile; by the way he shows his hurt when I leave without taking him… When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive. When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile. When I am happy, he is joy unbounded. – Gene Hill

The Blonde With The Big Boobs

In college I had a gorgeous, bubbly roommate named Cheri. She was the kind of girl that other girls watched out of the corners of their envious eyes as she went bouncing by. A luscious waterfall of blonde hair shimmered like a silky golden blouse, blue eyes sparkled like the glitter from art class in the 2^nd grade, and that smile, that perfect white smile framed by adorable dimples – a jury of her peers would most certainly find her guilty of possessing an unfair advantage.

Not surprisingly, the guys were helpless against the pull of her magnetic north to their south poles. They would follow her around like the pied piper’s hypnotized mice.

But when she opened her mouth, the enchantment was quickly broken. No one in the world could love themselves as much as this babbling Barbie doll. Her endless narcissistic chatter effectively reversed her intense magnetic pull, repelling all but the shallowest of suitors.

But as I got to know this flawless mannequin in a v-neck sweater and a mini skirt, it became obvious that she was desperately searching for a few crumbs confidence and a shred of evidence that she truly was this wonderful girl she spoke of. Every word uttered from those shapely pink lips was a plea: please see how amazing I am, please affirm that I am the most beautiful and desirable girl you know.

Many of her narratives began with, “So I walked into the bar, and this guy nearly fell off his chair – ‘Wow! Who’s the blonde with the big boobs???’”

She so often described herself this way, as the blonde with the big boobs, that eventually that’s what we called her. She was no longer Cheri; she was The Blonde With The Big Boobs.

She loved that nickname. Although she'd feign annoyance when we said it, her brazen eyes sparkled with delight.

I always wondered, though, did she really even see herself this way? Or did she see herself as The Worthless Girl Who Dates Arrogant Assholes, or perhaps The Trailer Park Kid From A Broken Home, or The Loser Who Dropped Out After Freshman Year.

Or maybe she really did see herself as The Blonde With The Big Boobs, and she felt that was all she really had going for her.

We ultimately became close friends, my patience with her nonsensical prattle paying off as she let down her “I’m So Beautiful” wall of protection and let me in. The stories of how she floored all the guys on campus with her stunning good looks eventually settled down. She was a sweet girl underneath her blanket of pretentiousness.

I’m sad to say that we lost contact after college. I think about her often, and I worry for her, and I hope that she’s okay.

I remember you Cheri, and you will always be My Beautiful Friend With the Smile That Lit Up the Room.

“If you need encouragement, praise, pats on the back from everybody, then you make everybody your judge.” - Fritz Perls

Mrs. Garrison

When I was very young we lived in an apartment building on 6th Street. Mrs. Garrison lived on the third floor of our building for a while, and then she moved to an apartment up the block from us – not too far, still within walking distance. She used to babysit for my brother and me. Sometimes if my brother had plans with friends, I would have her all to myself.

She was really old. I mean, to a 5-year-old, 75 was really, really old. She wore old-lady dresses and old lady shoes. She had a large hump on her back where her spine was curved, and she kept her pure white hair tied up in a bun.

I remember once when I was staying overnight with her, she took her bun down to brush her hair. I had never seen it down. It was so long and white.

“Mrs. Garrison, you look like a witch!” I laughed.

She looked in the mirror. “Yes, I guess I do!” she laughed. I didn’t mean any offense (you know how little kids just blurt out whatever they’re thinking), and none was taken. She put her hair back up in a bun, and she put mine up in a bun too, so I could be like her. We admired ourselves in the mirror. I had never seen my long hair tied up in a bun before. I liked it.

********

Mrs. Garrison was afraid of thunder and lightening. She and I had that in common. Whenever it stormed, she would come downstairs from her third-floor apartment and stay with us until it passed. She didn’t like to be up so high. It always made me feel better that I wasn’t the only one afraid of the lightening. And I recall even feeling the slightest bit brave, because I knew that staying with us made Mrs. Garrison feel better. I felt like I was helping her, protecting her. We got through those storms together.

********

There was a black velvet painting of Elvis on the wall in the living room.

I was 7 years old, sitting at the kitchen table drawing pictures with Mrs. Garrison when her son stopped by.

“Did you hear?”

“Yes, I heard,” Mrs Garrison said in a low, solemn voice, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Hear what?” I asked.

“The King is dead.”

“We have a king?”

“The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll!” said her son. “Don’t you know who The King is?”

I didn’t know, but they sure did. It was a sad day at Mrs. Garrison’s.

(Side note: whose parents or grandparents cut out the newspaper article when Elvis died? I have all the Elvis clippings in the box of papers from my grandparents, along with the moon landing two page pictoral from the New York Daily News, and a bunch of recipes my grandmother was saving.)

********

Mrs. Garrison was old, but she was energetic and fun. Much more energetic than my grandmother, who was younger but very overweight and mostly just sat around and watched her “stories” in the afternoons. Mrs. Garrison and I took walks to the lake to feed the ducks, and up to Angie’s Delicatessen to buy new coloring books and nice new crayons. Oh, how I loved a new box of Crayola crayons, with their vivid colors and perfect tips. My favorite was Magenta, although at the time I misread it as Mag-neta.

When my favorite stuffed animal, a little white lamb, got so threadbare from its constant companionship with me, the neck ripped into a wide gaping hole. My grandmother said it couldn’t be fixed, so I carried my wounded lamb around that way for weeks with the stuffing hanging out.

But one night when I stayed with Mrs. Garrison, I asked her if it could be fixed and she said “Of course it can!” She got out her black thread (it was the only color she had) and stitched it up. The black stitches kind of stuck out on my dirty little lamb, but he was no longer injured or losing stuffing as we walked, and I was so happy.

Mrs. Garrison was the best.

Some of the caregivers from childhood (babysitters, teachers...) fade away from our memories over time. But the ones who gave you their full attention, the ones that spent quality time with you, and made you smile, maybe even made you feel loved… those are the ones you never forget.

Little Boy Blue

When I was young I was a little frightened of my uncle, who was an alcoholic. Sometimes he stayed with us for months at a time, and sometimes even when he wasn’t staying with us, we would get that knock on the door in the middle of the night, which meant he was drunk and had nowhere to go.

So when I was awakened by knocking and crying, I just knew it was him, and I was paralyzed in my bed in our little apartment on 6th Street. I wanted wake my mom and dad, but to get to their room I would have to cross the living room where the front door was rattling from incessant pounding. I was too afraid.

I laid in my bed listening to that knocking and wailing for what seemed like the longest time. Finally, I gathered up the courage to get out of bed and go wake them up.

As I ran toward the living room on bare tiptoes, mom and dad were just coming out of their bedroom. I stood frozen in the entryway, wide-eyed at what I might see when they opened the door to our apartment.

It turned out to be our neighbor from across the hall. She was cradling her tiny baby in her arms and crying.

“He’s not breathing.”

My dad took the bundle from her and laid him on the couch, and he began to perform mouth-to-mouth on the baby while my mother called the ambulance. And the distraught neighbor stood sobbing in her powder-blue nightgown, her hair in a low ponytail, mascara running down her cheeks.

I don’t know how long it took for the paramedics to get there, but I can still see them entering our apartment in their sanitary white coats, black medical bags in hand. I stood watching from the doorway as they worked on the fragile baby for a while, and then they took him away.

It was a few days later that I overheard my mother on the phone, saying “the poor little thing didn’t make it.” And I remember blaming myself… What if I had gotten out of bed sooner? Could the baby have been saved?

********

After the birth of my daughter, my mother and I were talking about the importance of CPR and knowing what to do in case of emergency. I hesitantly brought up the baby from across the hall, wondering if she would recall the incident. “Oh, remember that? The poor little thing – he was blue when she brought him over. Your father tried to save him, but the little guy was long gone.”

So after 16 years of blaming myself I finally felt a bit of relief.

But to the little baby boy from across the hall, I wanted you to know that I remember you, and I wish there was something I could have done to save you.

“If only. Those must be the two saddest words in the world.”

– Mercedes Lackey

My Friend Michael B

In June my sister-in-law is participating in the Rock and Roll Marathon in San Diego to raise money for leukemia. My husband donated $100 from us, but he was a little hesitant at first to tell me the amount he gave. I don’t know why – he knows I’m a generous person. But what he didn’t know at the time is that I have a big soft spot in my heart for leukemia research…

********

My best friend in nursery school was Michael B. He was a bubbly blond-haired boy, and perhaps even my first crush. He always had a smile on his face and he always made me laugh. When he was in school, we were inseparable.

But there were times when he was out of school for weeks at a time.

Once when he came back from a long absence, he was wearing a hat. It was a cute little beach hat with white, blue and yellow stripes. Underneath it, he was bald from the chemo treatments he was undergoing for leukemia.

In nursery school, we were taught to put our coats on by ourselves. The technique was to place the coat on the floor in front of us, upside down. Then we would bend down and put our arms through the armholes, and make a big circle up over our heads, and our coats would miraculously be on.

Well when Michael tried to put his coat on at the end of the day, his hat came off. One of the boys took it and ran. A big chase was on. Everyone was in on it, pointing and laughing, teasing Michael about his bald head. But he was all smiles as he ran around after them, because that’s the kind of kid he was.

I ran around too, flailing my arms and jumping up and down, until one of the kids finally threw the hat to me. I ran over and put it right back on Michael’s head, and the game was over. We were best friends, you know.

Sometime the next year I was with my mother, visiting my grandmother’s grave at the church near the playground. Just a few steps away was a headstone with a baseball and a bat carved into it, which looked much different than all the other headstones decorated with flowers and crosses.

“Ooh, I like this one,” I said.

“Oh, that’s poor little Michael B from your nursery school,” my mother said.

I was speechless. Just wide-eyed and speechless.

I realized a few things that day, at the age of 6. I realized that anyone could die, even a little kid. I had always thought that dying was something that happens when you get too old. This new knowledge put a fear in me that kept me awake many, many nights throughout my childhood.

I also realized that my best friend was gone.

I remember you, Michael, and I think of you often. I will never forget your smile, or your sweet blue eyes, or your laugh, or your courage.

********

If anyone would like to donate to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, here is the site where my sister-in-law is collecting donations. I’m proud of her for the effort she is putting into training for this event and for collecting money for this worthy cause.

We Should Have Been Friends

When I was 5 years old, I found a friend to play with while my father was playing a softball game. We were the same age, and we were both wearing dresses and barrettes in our hair.

We were happy to have found each other, because a softball game lasts a really long time. We played on the swings, in the sandbox, and on the seesaw, giggling all day.

Later, when the players were taking a break, I went to see my dad, and she went to see her dad, who was on the opposing team.

Dad and I shared a turkey wedge with lettuce, tomato and mayo, my favorite. He had an RC Cola, and I had a Yoo-hoo. And of course, I had Twinkies for dessert. Always Twinkies.

Someone on our team came over and said teasingly, “I saw you! I saw you playing with that little black girl!”

“So?”

But he continued, “Yeah, I saw you playing with the little porch monkey.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound nice. And I think even someone else joined in too. And my dad just raised his eyebrows and nodded his head a little, not completely playing along with them, but not standing up for me either.

And I started to feel embarrassed, like I’d done something wrong.

When my dad’s team went back to the dugout, and her dad’s team went out on the field, she came over to the bench where I was sitting and sat down right next to me, ready to resume our games. I felt like I shouldn’t be seen with her, like they were all going to talk about me and laugh at me.

They might even point their fingers and say “I see you!”

So I moved away from her to the other side of the bench.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just don’t feel like playing anymore.”

But that was two lies in one. I did feel like playing some more. And something was very wrong.

It's a good thing we're not all destined to repeat the mistakes of our fathers.

So to the little girl on the bench at the park, with the pretty little barrettes in her hair, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’ve remembered you my whole life, but I hope you don’t remember me.