IN MEMORY OF BUTTER

Some things you never forget, no matter how long ago they happened.  It's been 22 years today since we lost 

our first beautiful basset hound, Butterscotch Sunday to gastric bloat.  It's common in deep-chested breeds like bassets.  She survived the first two attacks but not the third.  This afternoon I visited her memorial brick in the courtyard at Gracie's Adoption Center at the Sacramento SPCA and placed a flower beside her name.  

Butter was the only basset we have ever purchased from a breeder, and she had a very fine pedigree, which was not as diluted in the 1970s as many bloodlines are now.  I still remember the Sunday in April we went to see our first litter of basset hound puppies.  Her dam, Buckwheat, was as beautiful, sedate and sweet as Butter was to become.  Butter was the only one of the litter that came over to us.  She fell asleep in my little brother's lap.  We'd been chosen.  We named her Butterscotch Sunday because of the swirl of butterscotch coloring on her back and the fact that we brought her home on a Sunday.  

Though I have not purchased another dog from a breeder since her, I have to admit that of all the dogs we've had, she had the best conformation and the most even and reliable temperament of any of them.  Even our beloved Bubba became cantankerous in his dotage, but I blame the arthritis pain he endured.  It's enough to make anyone snarly.  Butter would never have bitten a flea, though.  

On this dog day in August I'm always reminded of the line in the song, Mr. Bo Jangles.  After 20 years, she still grieves.