Isn't it funny how you can see one thing — or even one minute detail on one thing — and your mind goes back to someone, some place or thing, that your mind hadn't been to in ages? I was driving home for lunch Friday and saw a woman walking a dog. It was a mongrel, probably about 40 pounds, nothing special about it. But its brown-peppered-with-black coloring was exactly the same as Butch, a dog that had the run of our neighborhood when I was an adolescent.
Butch was a mix of just about every dog breed you can think of. I'm pretty sure he had some German Shepherd in him, some beagle, some Lab…maybe all Labs! His true owners were a family that lived two doors south of me, Steve and Renee, and their two kids, Jennifer and Stevie.
As dogs go, Butch wasn't anything special. He wasn't super bright, but he wasn't stupid, either. He never rescued a kid who fell in a well; never saved a family in their burning house. Butch was just a dog; Steve and Renee and Jennifer and Stevie's dog. But Butch was everyone's dog.
In the days when people just weren't so worked up about dogs wandering around off-leash, Butch was rarely tied up, and never kept inside. Ubiquitous defined, if kids were playing in someone's yard, Butch was there. If other neighborhood dogs were bunched together and sniffing each other's butts, Butch was right there, sniffing away. If your yard had a shady tree, Butch was there, snoozing when your yard was the coolest part of the day.
He came when just about anybody called him. He was always happy to let you pat him on the head or on his ribs. I'm pretty certain he knocked up several neighborhood bitches, much to the chagrin of their owners. Or maybe he didn't…one summer when our dog, Suzie — a cantankerous Chihuahua/Toy Collie mix — was in heat (this was also in the day when people rarely got their pets "fixed"), I happened upon a romantic moment in Mrs. Shane's front yard where Butch was inclined to get him some, Suzie was inclined to let him and I was inclined to watch. Did I mention I was an adolescent?
More than twice her size, Butch pawed at Suzie — which she didn't like too much — to get her into position. In his lust for thrust, and in his inability to actually see where she was beneath him, Butch managed to get Suzie turned around backwards and was humping her head. If I may be so presumptuous as to ascribe facial expressions to dogs, Butch's was utter bliss, as if the act of simply humping was the pleasure, and never mind the lack of penetration. Suzie literally looked over at me about 30 feet away, and I swear her expression read, Can you believe this?! I was aboard to see this comedy of errors through to the end, but I got busted by the busybody Mrs. Shane. She came out of the house and onto the porch and shamed me all kinds of ways for standing there watching two dogs do essentially nothing.
Butch's true affection — when no neighborhood bitches were on the wind — was Jennifer and Stevie. About three or four years apart in age, Jennifer and Stevie always seemed to play together, either the two of them alone, or with the rest of the neighborhood kids. And, of course, Butch was there. I never saw a situation where he felt the need to protect them, but I'm certain the thought was there, in whatever form it resides in a dog's mind. While they played with Butch, he endured and tolerated everything kids think of to do to dogs: ear- and tail-pulling, attempts to ride him, blowing in his face, wrestling with him… he just seemed to take it all in stride.
With several dogs running around the neighborhood of a warm summer day, I don't recall ever seeing any of them fight. I imagine they did, I just never saw it. All the dogs seemed to get along. Butch was "friends" with our other dog, Joshua, Suzie's only surviving offspring. Josh was, of course, part Chihuahua, and part Toy Collie, but he was also part Pekingese, thanks to Mr. Shane's purebred, which was always on a leash when it was outside, either walking with Mr. Shane or tied to the handrail post at the bottom of the stairs to Mr. Shane's apartment; Suzie brought it to him! It was fun to watch Butch and Josh play, a sort of amused look in Butch's eyes as Joshua acted tough. And, as mean as Joshua got in their play, Butch never snapped back or tried to hurt him.
I can't help but imagine that Butch sort of helped keep our neighborhood and the smaller kids safe. He was everywhere, almost everyone in the neighborhood knew him and liked him, and I think he had it figured in his mind that he belonged to everyone — or everyone belonged to him — but with a stronger affection for Steve and Renee and Jennifer and Stevie.
In case you're fearful of the sad turn in this story, I'm happy to say that there isn't one. Honestly, I can't remember what ever happened to Butch. I seem to recall that he disappeared one day, but it could just be how it seems to me in memory. I simply don't know. His existence in my memory just fades out at an unknown time under unknown circumstances. And I think that's a good thing for me. No sad memories about Butch.
Good dog!
3 comments:
It's odd, but I cannot remember a single neighborhood dog when I was growing up. I always had one, and they are called to memory very quickly.
You've reminded me of our dog Muffin; a mixed-breed female and the dog next door (when we first moved here), a miniature Schnauzer named Max, whom I called the "A-frame" dog,because his front legs splayed out to the sides when he stood. Max was the original horny dog and every time he came in our yard, he tried to hump Muffin. Nevermind that she had been spayed and was never in heat. Max knew the motions and was only too happy to perform them. Muffin would look at me with an expression that said "WHAT the hell is HE doing??!!"
Poor Max met an undignified end: his "dad" backed the car out over him, and was inconsolable for weeks.
Dogs could teach people a thing or two about how to get along with others.
We had one of those same dogs in our neighborhood growing up. Ironically I just read your post about Starsky and Hutch and that dogs name was Starsky. Named after the show of course! I loved that dog. Thanks for brining back that memory for me.
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