Butch seems to be fine now, if you don't count the problem that sent him to the vet in the first place. Otherwise, he's very much his old self.
I, however, am still struggling a little bit as a result of the scare. I wake up in the night and listen for the breathing of two dogs. If I can't hear two separate, distinct breathing patterns, I sit up, turn on the bedside lamp, and watch to make sure both chests are rising and falling as they should. Butch, bless his good-natured soul, may be getting tired of being rudely awakened by my calling his name or making an unusual noise to test his reaction.
I'm reminded of a complaint my stepfather made about my mother a few months after he'd been hospitalized for a stroke. "I'm tired," he said, "but everytime I lay down to take a nap, Wanda calls 911."