Cursed Tongue: Buttons: White-Hot Snarling Barrel of Fun

Posted by CursedTongue on July 20, 2006

My Grandfather, a wiry, hard-bitten man I can describe to you, with the least amount of work on my part, by comparing him to John Wayne (a.k.a. the Duke). He was tall, intimidating and a man of few words. Even as a child, my survival instincts told me that I’d better behave around him, because he wouldn’t hesitate to beat the ever-loving tar out of me. (Thankfully, that theory was never tested.)

My Grandmother, soft and small, the polar opposite of Grandpa Duke, could talk all of the air out of a room inside of five minutes. She had shear curtains so that she could watch the neighbors without being seen. She liked her nice things, and took keeping up with the Joneses to inspired heights. When she was battling lung disease, her doctor never indicated that she needed oxygen, but when her friend was prescribed oxygen, she had to have an oxygen tank of her own. And when Grandmother decided that she wanted a tiny, fluffy, purebred mall puppy, by God she got one.

The little white Bichon Frise was dubbed Buttons, and instead of faithfully tailing Grandmother, as was the intention, she immediately bonded with Grandpa Duke. Almost as immediately, Buttons developed a “thyroid” condition. The man who ate corned beef hash for breakfast, brick cheese and bologna on rye for lunch nearly every day of his life never neglected to share a mini-meal with Buttons. After he was finished, he would pass down his plate and let her eat the leftovers, which surely would have been enough to feed two starving Ghanaian children.

She would get to sip his coffee and her water was often flavored with root beer. Whenever a cheese plate was put out for company, she was offered her customary tribute, like a malevolent Doggy Llama.

I once made the mistake of denying the snarling bundle of joy her cheese sacrifice, and made the subsequent mistake of leaving my suitcase unzipped in my room. I found the contents of my toiletry bag strewn across the blindingly multi-colored striped carpet in the guest room, drool-soaked cotton balls and shredded tissue everywhere. I felt like Sarah, Queen of the Morons for having expected Grandpa Duke to do anything but brake into boisterous laughter when I told him what Buttons had done.

Despite the frequent walks Grandpa Duke dragged her on so he could escape for a clandestine smoke, Buttons expanded not unlike Violet Beauregarde into a furry off-white barrel of canine fury. Rather than being flabby and soft her skin was tight, so it appeared that she might pop. Poised precariously on her stubby small legs, she waddled. On a walk around the block with her I had the leash and looked away for a moment. She was laying down when I looked back, and I feared that she had collapsed. Grandpa Duke reassured me that she merely needed some rest.

Cute as she was, Grandpa often had to warn would-be dog bite victims off. According to the American Kennel Club, “A cheerful attitude is the hallmark of the [Bichon Frise] breed.” She barked at just about everything that moved. And one of the only things that would motivate her to run was chasing down joggers.

When Grandpa left her at home, he had to sneak out to keep her from following, and when she discovered that he was on the wrong side of the door she would yelp and holler as if she was being attacked by a mountain lion. I’d never heard such ungodly noises come out of a dog before.

We lived in fear of the thought that Buttons would precede Grandpa Duke in death. The man that worked on a ranch in Nevada, the man that man that regretted not being able to get into the Army during WWII because he was deaf in one ear, the man who liked to hunch in the brush in the woods with a rifle waiting for Bambi’s dad, and it would have crushed his soul into kibble if Buttons had died on him.

After Grandpa Duke passed on my Uncle and Aunt took Buttons in and they found out that some of her teeth were rotting. Which wasn’t a surprise because the only thing Grandpa denied her was chocolate. My Uncle and his sweet, patient wife had the rotten teeth pulled, put Buttons on a diet and put an end to the royal Bichon Frise treatment. She went from a ferociously protective canine diva who waddled as she walked to a svelte, good-natured old dog.

- Sarah Letnes

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