A dog's tale about Butterball

We call them Duke or Shep. They are our best friends — our dogs.

This is a tale — a dog’s tale — if you will, about a dog named Butterball.

Butterball became very ill while we were on vacation. At 14 years of age, it was to be expected, but I cried when I thought of losing him.
He came to us as a joke and a gift.

A generation ago in dog years, Butterball became a member of our family on the week of my wife’s birthday.

At the time he arrived, we had hamsters, a black Labrador retriever named Billy, an orange and white tiger-striped cat and a rabbit.

Linda said, “No more pets!” whenever the kids wanted to bring in a stray or fancied the idea of another animal.

Ken and Jana were a young couple in our church. They invited us to swim in their pool regularly and every time we went, Linda admired Jana’s little miniature poodle.

One day, Jana called me at my office and said a friend had a white miniature poodle he wanted to give away to a family who could give him a good home.

Remembering Linda’s edict against more pets, I smiled and said, “Sure - why don’t you call her. She’s at work today, but she will want to hear from you.”

I laughed as I hung up the phone. All afternoon I waited for the explosion I was sure would come when Jana offered Linda another pet.
Instead of getting the telephone call I expected from Linda, nothing was said.

That evening, while Linda was preparing supper, I had to ask, “Did Jana call you today?”

“About the dog?” she asked. Again I waited for the explosion. Instead, Linda asked, “Can we get him?” and I was stuck with another dog.

The kids named him Butterball, though his name was often shortened to Butter or even Butt, when appropriate.

We drove to the man’s home and found the puppy to be well groomed and obedient.

“Stay,” the man told him and he stayed on the hearth in front of the living room fireplace. “Come!” and the puppy, then-named Snowball, walked to him.

How could we not take home such an obedient dog? He was obviously much smarter than our black lab.

So, that night, he rode home on my wife’s lap and I knew she had a dog. Or, so I thought.

At home, the kids expressed displeasure with Snowball’s name.

“How about Butterball?” they asked, noting the light yellow streak that ran down his back.

Little did we know that all white miniature poodles have that streak and it goes away as they grow out of puppyhood.

The name was changed and Butterball, the poodle formerly known as Snowball, had a family. He also lost his obedient spirit as he became spoiled and learned that entertainment was rewarded more than obedience.

He adopted me.

I really wanted nothing to do with a “sissy dog” as I called him.

Now Billy was a real dog. He would go for long walks with me in the Kentucky countryside where we lived. He splashed through the drainage ditches and swam in ponds when he became overheated.

There was nothing that could harm Billy. Not even Butterball, who became jealous when I petted Billy. Butter would jump up and bite Billy’s ear just to get attention.

Billy wouldn’t defend himself. He would just look at me as if to plead, “Dad, make him stop!”

Butter made sure I paid attention to him. Billy had been relegated to a doghouse after sweeping all the magazines off our coffee table with his tail once too often. But Butter had the run of our home.

He would get me up before dawn to go to the bathroom. When I sat him down in the back yard, he would try to run off, just to make sure I would run after him.

A couple years later, we moved back to Indiana. I became news director at the local radio station in Montgomery County. That meant getting to bed about 9 p.m. and up at 3 a.m.

Butter would always “tuck me in” when I went to bed. After I went to sleep, he would go out in the living room with Linda.

Disk jockeys at the radio station maligned him. In the four years I worked at WCVL-WIMC, we had three morning personalities.

During our scheduled “chat time,” I would be asked about our family and Butterball’s name would come up.

All four of the disk jockeys used the same line.

“His name is Butterball?” they asked. “Does he get scared at Thanksgiving time?”

Yeah, real funny, guys.

Butter turned 14 this year and that is old in dog years.

We took him camping with us on vacation this month. On Sunday, he was dropped off at Grandma’s while we went to church. When we went to pick him up, he could only cry and limp, unable to sit down or to rest.

There was no helping him, so on Tuesday, Linda and I took him to a nearby veterinarian. I admit I cried. Linda and I were convinced our buddy’s life was at an end.

“Are you sure you want to go?” she asked me. “If we have to put him to sleep, I’ll make the decision, because I know you can’t do it.”
I wanted to go.

Dr. Tom Martin in Crawfordsville made time to see him that morning.

“Look at this,” he said, holding Butter’s paw. “There is a puncture wound and it looks like he stepped in tar and the paw became infected.”

Dr. Martin cleaned the wound, bound it with salve and told us to take Butter to his own doctor when we get home.

So, the rest of the week, Butter lay around with his leg wrapped in an elastic bandage.

But we still weren’t sure he would be all right. Dr. Martin gave us pain pills for Butter, but we knew that was not all the problem. Butter had been treated for testicular cancer a year earlier. At that time, the vet said he might make it another five years, if we were lucky.

So, back home in Brazil, we called Dr. Fred Froderman. He agreed to see Butter quickly.

“It’s not cancer,” Dr. Froderman said to our tremendous relief. “Keep giving him the pain medication and an antibiotic daily.”

So, after a bad scare, Butter is back to his old self again.

We don’t know how much longer he will live, but we’re thankful for every day.

He likes to be outside when I am working in the yard. Today, I didn’t take him out with me. Oh, he was upset!

He still limps once in a while even though his paw has healed. I think he’s milking the attention.