Butch from Glen Cove

By Amy Fernandez

Looking back on 2020, it’s reasonable to speculate if things will ever be normal again. That’s what dogs are for! At the moment, we may feel like we have cornered the market on awful stuff, but that forlorn sensibility has swept through the population more times than we need to think about right now.

Here’s a dog story set in the aftermath of World War II that might help.  Now Glen Cove, Long Island was a far cry from the battlefront. But those years still had a tremendous, negative impact. When peace was declared in the fall of 1945, relief and despondency were fairly well-matched general sentiments.

And that fact wasn’t lost on the staff at the local paper. They needed to pull the population out of its malaise so they ran a feature on Butch, the 240 pound St. Bernard that represented the epitome of Glen Cove normalcy. Because, as Newsdaypointed out, “He hadn’t even noticed the war.”

Now this took place back in the day when leashes were optional equipment and Glen Cove truly was the middle of nowhere. Although Butch had an official owner, he was just too much dog for one person. He took over the town. Day in and day out, his afternoon nap happened at the intersection of Glen and School streets–which actually qualified as the busiest corner. But Butch took precedence. For the duration of his nap, vehicular and pedestrian traffic cut a wide path around him. If it was too hot outside, he strolled into the local movie theater and flopped in the lobby for a while. When he woke up and got the munchies, he strolled over to Big Ben Market to tie on the old feedbag. This routine went on for years. The town worked around Butch. Actually, many claimed they could set their watch according to his predictable routine. Dogs are like that.

However, once in awhile, even Butch got bored with this slow pace of life. Then he would take himself over to the station and catch the Long Island Railroad into Oyster Bay where he was particularly fond of the butcher shop. Arriving back at Glen Cove on the 6 PM train, he usually took another nap by the stove in the station prior to his hike back home.

His other favorite haunt was the corner tavern. Sprawled out in comfort, he occupied almost half the floor space but that was his prerogative like any other welcome customer. Once in awhile, just to change it up a little, he commandeered the Western Union office as his break room. Didn’t matter, Butch needed no explaining in Glen Cove. “He was a big, floppy monster of a St. Bernard…allowed to roam and to sleep where he wanted, and to scrounge snacks to his heart’s content.”  As Newsdayexplained, “Butch was fed by everyone, sheltered by many, and so it seemed, loved by all.”

There was no doubt about that when postwar life resumed in Glen Cove. “For many a member of the armed forces who returned to Long Island after the war, Butch was perhaps a reminder of the small town America they had left behind.” That big lazy dog still owned the town.  And that seems truly fitting for this canine symbol of steadfast devotion.

By 1946 Butch had transcended small town fame, earning a three page spread in Life Magazine, which sent a reporter and photographer to trail him on his daily rounds for their feature. Although Butch was a familiar sight in Glen Cove, the article detailed his close encounter with the cops one day when he ducked into the train station ladies room seeking some peace and quiet. The station manager, hearing suspicious sounds emanating from the supposedly vacant restroom, summoned the police to report a burglary in progress. Well, they barged in, weapons drawn, to find Butch zonked out and snoring away as only a Saint can, completely oblivious to the mayhem. It wasn’t the first or last time Butch made the news because canine weirdness is one fact of life that will never change. We can all take comfort in that.

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Posted by admin on Dec 25 2020. Filed under Current Articles, Dog Show History, Featured. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. Both comments and pings are currently closed.