Margaret noticed the grainy photo in the weekly paper, and insisted that I look. What I saw was a jet black poodle peering out at the photographer through a chain link fence. A yearling female of delicate configuration stared out with desperation and helpless hopefulness. It was like viewing a princess at a cookout in the hobo jungle. Her time was running out and her only appeal to escape death row was the sorrow in her eyes.

“I want to get her out of that pen” Margaret stated as her eyes welled with tears.

“We’ve already got a poodle and three Chihuahuas,” I reminded her, “and at our age we don’t need to take in a young poodle that might outlive us. “I hate to take on a responsibility that we might not live long enough to fulfill.” Without another word she picked up the phone and dialed our daughter Tracy.

I went onto the porch in lieu of interrupting negotiations, and within five minutes Margaret emerged with a smile on her face.

“Comb your hair,” she said, “we’re going to the animal pound.

“You’d better call City Hall to be sure that poodle is still there,” I suggested. “Someone may have already put up bail.”

“I did phone them! They’ll meet us there in fifteen minutes. Don’t forget to comb your hair.”

Margaret and I had been married long enough for me to know that negotiations were ended, and the time had come to get a move on. I combed my hair.

The animal control employee reached into the pen and extracted the little waif to safety and handed her to Margaret. Her pompom tail gyrated rapidly, and she licked Margaret’s hand.

“Come by City Hall and we’ll do the paperwork,” the officer said. “And bring your checkbook.” I took Margaret and her newly acquired to the house and continued on to City Hall. Within thirty minutes I bought a license and put up the amount necessary to have our veterinarian administer the necessary shots and perform the spaying operation. I departed with adoption papers and a signed receipt for a hundred and twenty-five dollars.

Margaret was picking clover burrs from the matted hair while the grateful poodle licked her hands. That sight was well worth the money we’d spent to make it possible.

“I called the groomer, and we’ll take her over as soon as we get her shots. We set her operation for next week.” I extended my hand to the little tangled head and was going to give Margaret a kiss on the cheek, but I lost my nerve when that jet back wad of hair growled and snapped at me as warning.

“Tracy wants her for Taylor. She can sleep in bed with her and keep her feet warm,” Margaret stated. “They will pick her up as soon as her operation is done.”

Taylor was our six-year-old granddaughter back then, but she’s doubled that age at this writing in 2007.

Everything went off like clockwork, and within a few days Tracy and Taylor drove the twelve miles from their home town to inspect their precious cargo.

The metamorphosis from tramp to lady was remarkable. What had been a disheveled tangle of hair had been remanufactured into a pinup poodle if ever there was one. She had painted toe nails, silky groomed hair and a pink hair ribbon topped the work of art off. Taylor screamed with glee, picked her up and smothered her with affection. Margaret teared up when her daughter, granddaughter and that darling dog loaded into the car and left for home.

“I wanted to keep her for myself,” she admitted after they drove away.

“I know,” I said, “but you’ll still get to see and hold her when we visit the kids.” And that prediction came to pass on a regular basis. However things did not work out exactly as we’d planned.

Taylor picked her name, Butterfly, and the why is beyond explanation, but after all, that was Taylor’s option, so the name was officially adopted by the entire tribe. Butterfly however opted to choose Tracy as her bunk mate. She and Taylor did not gee-haw and Butterfly kept falling out of bed when Taylor crowded her. Besides that, based on her behavior, Butterfly was a little edgy around little people. Experiences during her puppy hood most likely account for it, but who can say.

In the year of 2006 Tracy got a teaching position in Azle, Texas, which is of course a small drop in the MetroPlex of scrambled settlements, a hundred miles removed from our rural area. It was not a place Tracy chose to take Butterfly, so Margaret was in position to take her back into our home until death do us part. A win-win situation if ever there was one.

Since I am better that two yards in length Margaret and I shared a king dimension bed, and Butterfly chose the territory between us as her sprawling space. Before she closed her eyes she always positioned herself to be in touch with Margaret, and she brought along a moose configuration dog toy that honks when its hind-quarter is bitten and tossed around at bedtime. It’s her way of sounding taps.

In that same year Margaret lost her ability to solve her beloved crossword puzzles, keep her checkbook in order, operate her computer, or drive her car. Those were the early signs and the situation only grew worse as time passed.

On Thanksgiving weekend desperation overcame her and she took an overdose of prescription medicine. A break neck dash to the hospital averted what might have been, into a three-day stay, and it was followed by a six-week stay at a rehabilitation clinic. But all those efforts were in vain. We all have a breaking point. Margaret found hers.

Margaret’s health had been worsening for several years and she was diagnosed with depression, dementia and approaching Alzheimer's. That trio is relentless, merciless and vicious once they randomly make a choice for assault. Their target’s efforts to resist—with all the King’s horses and all the King’s men—are defenseless once the siege gets underway. This past month care facilities were our only option for my Ol’ Margaret—and I suffered the most devastating loss in my seventy-seven years on this planet. The wounds to my soul may scab over but I doubt they will ever heal.

Butterfly is my tranquilizer and a reason to get up every morning. I’d a heap druther have a devoted dog on my team as a Diplomaed Doctor—and she and I are making a little headway—day by day.

She still performs her nightly musical with that honking moose as we snuggle in for the night. We look out for each other—hang tough—and hanging together. Old Margaret is with us in spirit.