Every man remembers his first heartbreak.

Mine was named Butch. He was a handsome Foxhound/Beagle mix with all of the joyous canine qualities that both breeds possess.

I can’t remember when my parents first brought him home. I must’ve been about five, only a few years after we’d relocated from the Italian delis and pizzerias of the Bronx to the coconut and orange trees of Boynton Beach, Florida. And I don’t know how, when or where Butch died because his destination from my life was fabricated to shield me from the truth.

Up until the age of six, I was one happy kid and Butch played a rambunctious part of my tropical childhood. Before I was born, my sister, Anna Renee, had died from pneumonia at Westchester Square Hospital in the Bronx and, after the birth of me and my brother Michael, our mother decided she wouldn’t tolerate another freezing winter in New York.

My parents chose Boynton Beach because mom’s brother, my Uncle Freddy, had a place there. She visited the area and sent us a beautiful postcard extolling the beach, sunshine and fishing. Unfortunately, mom neglected to tell dad that this was also the Jim Crow era. Schools, bathrooms and water fountains were racially segregated and, while we were Italian, a guy named Aldo Enzo Castello would fall short of being a socially desirable WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant).

Being so young, I was completely unaware of these prejudices or our family’s persistent financial difficulties due to dad having trouble finding a decent job. I was in my own world, day dreaming about being a future archaeologist, and genuinely happy. Ours was a loving family and I would run around the yard with Butch.

My idyllic childhood was shattered the day I entered first grade at St Mark’s Catholic School in Boynton Beach.

I was catapulted into a nightmarish world of sadistic nuns and a sexually abusive priest. One nun was infamous for denying a child’s request to use the bathroom. Before the school year was over, nearly every child in my first grade class, including myself, had urinated on the classroom floor. Another nun tied a girl to her chair with a straight jacket. There were more incidents that would certainly be considered child abuse today, but I’ve tried my best to forget them.

Worst of all was the priest, Father Rocco Charles D’Angelo.

Many believe that one of the most notorious priest/altar boy sex scandals in America started with D’Angelo in Tampa, but he was in Boynton Beach long before he was transferred. Fortunately, he didn’t touch me or my brother because our father was a tough Italian street guy and D’Angelo wisely kept his hands to himself. But my friend, Kevin Sidaway, vanished from St Mark’s in second grade. I had no idea what happened to him until years later when mom phoned me in Manhattan to say that she’d just seen Kevin on the Phil Donahue Show recounting his sexual molestation from Father D’Angelo.

Of course, all of this completely traumatized me. I had no idea how I could explain any of this to my parents. Mom knew I hated St Mark’s, but, after all the cultural discrimination they’d endured, sending me to public school was out of the question. They wouldn’t even teach me how to speak Italian. So, I kept it all bottled up inside until one day in the second grade my mind and body couldn’t take it any longer and I collapsed walking out our front door on the way to school.

It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my windpipe.

I was literally suffocating.

Mom had been so affected by my sister’s death that she constantly watched over my brother and me like a protective hawk. When I fell to the ground, she picked me up and I whispered that I couldn’t breathe. I was a smart kid, she knew I hated St Mark’s and thought I was emotionally manipulating her. She slapped me across the face. Hard. I just stared at her in shock, gasping for breath.

From my bizarre non-reaction, mom’s maternal instincts kicked in. She knew something was seriously wrong. She rushed me to the car and we sped off to see our doctor. The front desk nurse saw me struggling for breath and helped me straight to the back . The doctor quickly checked my symptoms, slowly put down his stethoscope and told my mother the verdict.

I had severe asthma.

I was allergic to animal dander.

Butch had to go.

Mom was stunned. I was crying. On the drive home, she repeatedly apologized for slapping me. The doctor had given me an inhaler, which I called my puff-puff, that instantly helped me regain my breath. I told mom I wasn’t upset with her, but the thought of getting rid of Butch was breaking my heart. I was inconsolable for days, but there was nothing they could do.

I don’t remember the day Butch left. I was at school and mom planned it that way. She told me that a pepper farmer out by Lake Okeechobee named Farmer Greenwald had adopted Butch and we’d be able to visit him. That me feel better, but the asthma attacks persisted, occasionally keeping me bedridden for days, until mom transferred me to Boynton Beach Junior High School in the seventh grade. Overnight, my asthma attacks and allergy to animal dander disappeared.

And I never saw Butch again.

Every time we’d make plans to visit Butch some last minute conflict would arise and my parents would cancel. I bought into their creative excuses for years. By my eighteenth birthday, I’d had enough and told my parents I wanted to see Butch, with or without them. I had my own car and nothing was going to stop me. My demand was met with stone cold silence, but the nervous glances between them confirmed my worst fear.

There never was a Farmer Greenwald.

Leave it to my Bronx mother to create a ridiculous fictitious character named Farmer Greenwald. Yes, a Jewish green pepper farmer living out past Highway 441, deep in KKK cross-burning territory, during the vengeful backlash after the demise of Jim Crow.

They finally admitted the truth. They had brought Butch to the Boynton Beach animal shelter where they were assured that Butch was a desirable dog and would be quickly adopted.

Decades later, I’d still like to believe that.

Today, we know that as much of one-third of all childhood asthma is psychosomatic and caused by internal conflict or stress.

In memory of Butch, and all the dogs we’ve ever loved, here are the articles I’ve written for Kennel.com:

Rin Tin Tin – German Shepherd Superstar

Lassie – A Rough Collie Named Pal

The Molossus – The Dog That Conquered The World

Our Gang, The Little Rascals and Petey the Pit Bull

History of the Dog or How The Wolf Became Man’s Best Friend

Until we meet again,
David