Buttons was a very nervous dog. He didn't really like being in situations that scared him, which was most of them. So he wasn't really cut out for urban living.
Therefore, our move to Switzerland, albeit traumatic at the time, must have been a huge relief to him. His new home was on a hill outside a small village, far from anyone. He was able to run on the hill outside our house, and also had free range of the garden.
Since we're not the most sociable of people, Buttons didn't have to deal with too many strangers and visitors.
He didn't have to go out for walks if he didn't want to. And, usually, he didn't want to.
On occasion he would go for a wander up the hill, or lope around the lower slope close to the house.
Sometimes he would help Fiona by accompanying her up the hill to an apple tree close by, to pick an apple for our ‘naughty rabbits’. He would then follow her down to the rabbit hutches, and watch as they peered out from above him.
He loved raw meat, especially kidneys, hearts, marrowbones, and chicken. Being in the garden, he could enjoy these at his leisure—although kidneys and hearts went down too quickly to be called leisure!
His keenness for this food–which was itself unusual since he wasn't particularly food-motivated–was such that he would actually jump up at me when I was holding the tray. This was accompanied by his rubbish teeth almost extending from his jaw, disconcertingly like the monster in the Alien films.
Buttons hated tinned tuna. And he licked his bottom. As far as I'm concerned, that tells you all you need to know about tinned tuna.
During his time in England, Buttons would likely not have seen much snow, if any. So, when we came to Switzerland, we wondered how he would take to the stuff. The answer was like a duck to water!
The other dogs would wear coats to go out, but Buttons, with his thick coat of fur, rarely ever needed to. He would gallop around the garden happy as anything, often coming in with snow on his back where it had fallen on him from the tree.
Buttons loved to dig holes. His first attempt was in the garden of our house in England, where he made a large excavation in the lawn just before we moved. It became a muddy paddling pool during that winter but, fortunately, we'd already sold the house by then.
In Switzerland, he had two projects on the go, one on either side of the house. Oh, the fun of filling in his holes at the end of the day so that dirt didn't get walked into the house. And next day, he'd start again! Fiona would shout out “Buttons, no!” And he'd look up with a look on his face that said “Could you keep the noise down, I'm trying to dig a hole here”, or “yes, it's a very nice hole indeed, I'm glad you like it”.
He had earlier suffered from symmetrical lupoid onychodystrophy, an autoimmune disease that caused his nails to drop out. I half wished he hadn't been cured, after back-filling his creations for the umpteenth time.
And he discovered the power of his voice.
Buttons loved to bark, an act that was often accompanied by the swishing of his fat, fawn tail. He would bark as people approached the house, and more so when they left, following them from one side of the garden around the house to the other as they went off down the hill.
He was so proud of himself as he ‘saw them off’!
The postman was a regular recipient of Buttons' vocal bravery. As was I, on my return home from work.
From our garden, overlooking the village and the valley, Buttons had a good view of all below him. Along with the early-warning radar afforded by his more clued-in companions, it gave him the incentive to bark at on-comers. And other dogs. And the voices in his head for all we know.
And it was this eyrie, and his total muddle-headed enjoyment of his new life, that earned him the soubriquet ‘fool on the hill’.