Goodbye to Piper, the First Butler Family Dog

Piper as a puppy, me as a teenager (2008)

The Butler family always wanted a dog. When we were growing up, it was a majority opinion. But thanks to the mysterious "allergies" of a member of the family who shall go unnamed, it never ended up happening. So we had to make do with other people's dogs, especially those in the neighborhood, whom we watched, walked, played with, and enjoyed in lieu of having our own.

But once the Butler kids left the house, the only thing stopping us, theoretically, from finally realizing our household dream was ourselves. And so, naturally, the eldest of the Butler children, the first to really leave the nest, ended up the first in the family with a dog: Piper, a mysterious canine cocktail (we think Catahoula and Australian shepherd, among other breeds), who came into the Butler family in late 2008, and just left it today.

Piper as a puppy

Everyone tends to think his or her dog is the cutest, or the best, or whatever superlative you want to pick. The thing is, everyone is usually right. And we were right about Piper. She worked her way into our hearts quickly, helped by the fact that she was absolutely, ridiculously adorable as a puppy. Even with the inconveniences of puppydom, Piper endeared herself to us. And even as she grew out of puppy cuteness and into adult adorableness, we loved having her in our lives. The span of time of which she was a part was a rather big one for the Butler family: It saw all of us grow into adulthood, leave our childhood home, embark on professional careers. We were ourselves constants to one another during a time of much change and tumult. But so was Piper, who made her family debut around Christmas in 2008, and who is both remembered and captured in photograph as part of our family affairs throughout the entire period.

Piper with the family on Christmas Eve

What few complaints one could have about Piper were merely a reflection of her chief quality as a canine: She liked to be around people. She didn't like to be left alone, and never quite got used to being put out in the backyard. She could get nervous, either when alone, or sometimes when around too many other people or dogs, and could reflect this in a bark that remained powerful to her last days. Yet she always knew how to show true affection, in the way that only dogs seem capable. When you were alone with her, she was fond of curling up beside you on the floor. When in a group of familiar people, she often plopped herself down right in the middle of all of them. When greeting you, along with that familiar tail wag, she would push herself right up next to you, as close as she could get, surrounding your body with hers; we called this her "hug." Piper also had the mysterious ability to know exactly when a given person needed a cuddle or a lick. We in the family can give many examples of times we were in emotional or physical distress, and Piper had a seemingly psychic ability to detect it and to give us some doggy love -- even when other humans were unaware of what was wrong with us. 

Piper giving us a good cuddle

What else do I think of when I think of Piper? I think of being in a car with her when en route to a familiar place, when she got that look of recognition on her face that signaled she knew she was coming to a place she knew, with people (and perhaps also with smells) that she loved. I think of how when she got a favorite treat, like ice cream, her preference was to gulp down the whole thing at once, as opposed to some of the daintier dogs out there. I think of the many times it was my privilege to watch her, when she would follow me around whatever house or apartment I was in as though I was her entire world -- and realizing that, on those occasions, I may well have been (and was totally unworthy of being so). 

And though Piper is now gone, I think of the clear impact she has had on the Butler family. Not merely in being part of our lives over the past decade-plus, and consequently inserting herself into our memories of that period. She also changed the way we think about man's best friend. Not long after Piper came along, I discovered that the unnamed family member's "dog allergy" was either not real (perhaps a noble lie concocted out of a belief, likely correct, that this person would end up the one taking care of the dog the most), or was being endured with an incredible stoicism. It doesn't matter now. Piper's legacy is clear in the Butler dogs that came after her. First, there was Frankie, the four-year-old Labrador retriever who has spent those four years in the same household as Piper, giving the latter the opportunity to act as dog elder statesman. Then there was Ringo, the rambunctious and affectionate Australian Shepherd who has more followers on Instagram than I do on Twitter (and rightly so). And last, and perhaps unlikeliest, there was Koda, a klei klei mini-wolf who spends most of her time in California but got a chance to visit Piper for the first time earlier this year. These are all the dogs of people who never had one as children, but who were convinced by the example of Piper to take the leap into canine ownership. That is the legacy of Piper.

Piper on her last day, tongue proudly askew

There's another explanation for the mysterious canine allergy in our family that seems to have vanished, one that requires divulging an anecdote from our collective childhood. Once upon a time, we attempted to raise a tadpole into a frog. It may have been for a school project or something. Well, whatever it was, we didn't succeed; not long after our little tadpole sprouted legs, we found it floating atop its tank. The sadness was enough to compel its own funeral ceremony; we buried our amphibian friend in an Altoids case, near the Virgin Mary statue in the backyard, and balled our eyes out as we did so (or maybe it was just me). I seem to remember a similar experience with the various Hermit crabs we tried and failed to raise as a family over the years. So perhaps this family member, seeing how we reacted to the deaths of these tiny creatures, just didn't think we could handle the death of something a bit more substantial. Indeed, for a while, when I was younger, thanks to the euphemisms of various adults around me, I thought dogs actually were immortal. Piper has achieved a kind of immortality in our family, yes, one that will always help us to remember her. Even though she is now gone, even though I wish now that those euphemisms were true, even though I find it hard to believe such a fixture of my life since 2008 is no more . . . what time we had with her remains precious.  

A picture from my last time with Piper, in March of this year

If this all seems too much to say about a dog (as some more cynical people are fond of believing these days), well . . . get a dog first, then you'll see. You'll see how a little furry creature, one that cannot speak, can't really think (at least not in the way we do), develops its own personality, with its own quirks, likes, tricks, ups, and downs. You'll see how having a dog can provide solace, comfort, and companionship, and force the owner to look outside of him or herself for perhaps the first time, entrusted with the responsibility for another being. And you'll see how, improbably, such a creature can work its way into even the hardest of hearts. Piper certainly did that, for each member of the Butler family. As our first dog, she will be missed, but she will not be forgotten. 

And this is the happy dog I will remember her as.