Talk about pet stories, well, wait till you hear this one. No really, itís funny, and, well, Iíll try to make it painless, too. And, if you really insist, after youíve heard this one, I might be persuaded to tell more later. Believe me, there are a lot of Butch stories I could tell.
Picture this Greyhound, trim, tapered, streamlined body, long legs, nose that comes to a point, tall pointed ears, an almost hairless smooth coat, all black, a long thin tail and only one foot high.
Yep, you heard me right, Butch was only a foot tall, but he was the terror of the whole neighborhood. He wasnít really a greyhound, miniature or otherwise, but that was what he looked like, and he acted like a Doberman. He was really a combination of a Manchester Terrier and a Chihuahua, but you couldnít tell it from his bark or his attitude.
My uncle called Butch ďKillerí and often threatened to put us all out of our misery by stepping on him.
Butch was the runt of the litter and was well named. He was totally in control at our house. He decided at an early age that he belonged to Dad, or maybe I should say, Dad belonged to him.
My Dad was a salesman, and usually went to work late in the afternoon, and didnít come home till almost the witching hour. He would try to come in without waking anyone up, but that only worked if Butch was willing to cooperate. Otherwise the entire neighborhood was soon aware that Butch had spent the evening waiting anxiously for Dadís return home. Butch would pace, and whine, and pace, so when Dad finally made his appearance, it was as if Butch had been in fear of never seeing him again. He barked up a storm and raced around to alert everyone that the ďMasterĒ was home and we were all expected to respond accordingly.
Once in a while Dad could make it into the house without Butch knowing about. One time in particular, my youngest sister was having a sleepover. The house was filled with noisy preteens, there was food everywhere, pizza, popcorn, you name it. Butch was in junk food heaven. The girls all thought he was just soooo cute, and kept him preoccupied all evening, between being loved on and fed, he was soon worn to the bone, and fell sound asleep.
Dad came in shortly after everyone had finally somewhat settled for the evening. Slumber parties arenít exactly known for settling in, or for sleep, I have no clue why they are called a slumber party when no one ever really sleeps, as Iím sure you well know.
Well, Butch must have woken at some time during the night and realized Dad had come home, because he left Dad a heavenly reward, or so Iím sure that was his opinion, Butchís, that is, not my Dadís.
Well, Dad had come in late, but had to go out early the next morning, for a change. So he showered, and dressed in his suit and tie, and was all ready to leave, except for his shoes. At first he couldnít find them, then he remembered he had taken them off in the living room, which was now filled with still slumbering girls.
He slipped into the room, picked up his shoes, and sat down and quietly slipped them on. The look on his face was one of total surprise, and anguish, and, well, Iím not at all sure what the strange colors that passed over his face meant, except I sure wasnít going to get in his way.
Dad ran from the room, down the long hallway. We could hear the door to the bedroom slam. I still wish to this day I hadnít heard what followed, and I couldnít, wouldnít, and shouldnít repeat it anyway.
Butch then sauntered across the room, looking just as smug as a cat that had just swallowed a long dreamed of canary.
Butch had ďfilledĒ my dadís shoes for him, leaving a lovely, well, maybe I had best not try to describe it, Iíll just let your imagination fill in the blanks.
Needless to say, Dad NEVER tried to enter the house again without making sure he gave a very exuberant greeting to Butch.
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