Ode to Hank

Doggie Heaven just became a happier place

Author’s photo of Hank

I thought I had written my last dog eulogy.

First, there was our Goldendoodle, Nemo, who at the ripe age of 14 and 1/4 years we said goodbye to. April 10th will forever be a day of mourning as I recall all the love and fun Nemo gave my family, and really, anyone who crossed his path.

Then came Sable, who was a curmudgeonly husky mix. She ruled the dog park and puppies, in particular. She said to them, in no uncertain terms, “Know Your Place.” This meant they were not to play with Sable or assert their presence too much. Even better, “go play over there,” she’d say in dog talk — away from her.

They understood their schooling and usually tottered off.

Every pack needs someone who will step up and take control. That was Sable. Firm with dogs, loving with people. Give Sable the smallest treat, and she’d be yours forever.

Then came Pesky, a handsome cockapoo who led with an unbridled passion for the simplest things. A piece of tissue whisked by the wind could be endless fascination to Pesky as he chased it. Pesky would be my Exhibit A for a living creature with no dark side.

Most living creatures — dogs and humans — if you dig deeply enough, will uncover something. Except for Pesky… and now I need to add Hank.

Saluting Hank, the dog ambassador of the world

Hank, shown above, is the dog that made me decide I had one more dog-obituary in me. I will probably rally when it’s my dog’s turn (Teddy), but I’m hoping I have some years before I face that moment.

Hank was beautiful inside and out. He definitely had “lookism” — the ability to win people over because of how our eyes enjoy feasting on what’s in front of us. But it wasn’t simply his looks that won me over.

Hank was the kindest, most joyful, loving large dog. I laughed daily as I watched him chew on some large, random branch. If there was much left, he’d transport it home. One look outside his home, and you could see Hank’s trophies — a pile of discards.

If you were a smaller dog, you might be scared by Hank’s size and presence, but that would last for minutes before you saw him for what he was — a lover, pure and simple.

Our Teddy, who is scared of his shadow and any dog over 20 pounds — let’s forget that Teddy is tall, fast, and weighs 64 pounds — immediately took puppy Hank down to the ground upon first meeting to show his dominance.

Teddy, in dog talk, said, “Fear me for I can be aggressive.”

Hank heard him and gave him his space. This lasted for two years. In the third year, Teddy finally understood who Hank was. Hank was the ambassador of goodwill, greeting new and old dogs alike.

In dog talk, Hank said to all who crossed his path, “There’s a place for you here.”

Hank was smart, though, and gave Teddy his space until finally Teddy understood he didn’t need it. Hank saw the change in Teddy and no longer had to keep his distance.

Hank seemed to be one of those lucky creatures for whom everything came easily — great temperament, great family, great admirers, good dog community, the works. That is, until Hank had his fight with cancer, which he met with the same grace.

The hope was that if the vet amputated Hank’s leg, they could give him more life. The amputation gave him only three more months, but those months were needed to adjust to the awful possibility of a world without Hank, hoping against hope this wouldn’t be the case.

On three legs, and for almost three months, Hank still bounded with joy. I was encouraged, and the positive mind I bring to everything — even that which doesn’t deserve positivity — I brought to Hank.

“Look at you, go,” I’d shout as he crossed the field, always with a large branch in his mouth.

A week ago, Hank’s family had to put him down. Some might call them “owners,” but really, Hank owned them. The love Hank gave was deep, as is the loss Hank’s family must now process.

I feel the loss, too. I have been unable to go back to the park because I know I will feel the hole of Hank’s absence. Teddy helped me with this decision by showing us early, unmistakable signs of arthritis, which means gentle walks are better than fetching at full strength.

Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe it was the kind of convergence that helps me believe in God. Either way, Teddy gave me permission not to face the empty space at the park just yet.

Hank, you stole not only your family’s heart, but everyone near you. May you do your magic in doggie heaven. At some point, you might meet Nemo, who is a smaller version of you. You guys will get along great.

P.S. Nemo won’t fight you for the sticks…not his thing.