I'm told New York Times obituary writers pre-game assignments, writing the life stories of celebrities and other well-known folks far in advance of their actual demise. When the day arrives, they plug in the end-of-life details and the article is ready for publication. This seems efficient enough because, well, they won't be WRONG, right? Everybody's gotta go.
When it comes to obituaries, I've been warned that heartfelt ruminations about our departed fur-babies are kind of -- I dunno-- cheap ways to engage readers' hearts.
To avoid this, I hereby submit the pre-obit.
Picture this: Here I sit, my aging dog standing across from me, barking so loudly my Apple watch sends decibel warnings. I bark back: he'll be soup if he doesn't knock it off. I'm kidding.
Mostly.
And so this is the pre-obit for this guy, our Hank. The day will come when I'll post his demise on Facebook, maybe accompanied by this blog post.
We are living in his twilight days or weeks, warned by the vet that every good day is a gift. Hank has endured a myriad of ailments recently, from a random groin rash to an itchy nose to a body-wracking cough; all were alleviated by a solid dose of steroids and antibiotics. Until recently, he was losing a pound a week and that ridiculous lab appetite had to be tempted by people-food, which was forbidden but, hey, at this point what's the downside? It's not like it'll affect his long-term health. He sleeps a lot. Plus, he's legit deaf and no longer responding to the crackle of the tortilla chip bag. When he wants something, which is all the time, he barks so loudly that we wince.
He wants what he wants, but not much seems to satisfy him. I suspect a touch of dementia exists in that big, handsome head of his.
The vet thinks he may have cancer and, if we want, we can get x rays taken to confirm the diagnosis. But, as he's approaching age 13, we aren't sure what that information will do for us and him. We agreed: let's keep him comfortable and happy for as long as possible without grand medical gestures. He still runs/trots with me every morning. He loves his "chaws" (treats). He hangs out with us. And he barks, wanting everything and nothing. The Hank in Hank is still there. He's just a bit batty.
We adopted one-year-old Hank through a lab rescue on the south shore of Massachusetts. I saw a picture of a freckle-faced boy, wild-eyed and eager, and thought, "He's for me!" We drove to his foster home and there he stood, paws on the kitchen counter, happily trolling for scraps. Holy cow. His foster dad warned us that, yeah, he's a little needy, especially in the car. He wasn't kidding. We spent long drive home with John keeping him in a headlock so that Hank couldn't weasel his 75 pound frame into the front seat. The term "Hanxious" was invented.
After that, he was John's dog -- even though he lived with me.
(The universe keeps reminding me: you can't legislate affection.)
Eventually, our struggle to manage Hank forced us to send him to boot camp at Sandiepaws. Here he spent ten days learning better manners and came home a changed pooch. He was wild on the inside (can't take the beast out of the dog) but proud of his new tricks on the outside. He still loved to whack me in the leg with his paw (and left occasional bruises), but it was always a stealth-smack, quick and cheeky, letting me know he COULD dog-handle me if he wanted, but he was too well-mannered to do so.
So he lived his life, eventually moving into an empty home full of promise. Hank still lives to explore the 400 acres of conservation land filled with streams and hills and critters to chase. There were walks and runs over the years-- mostly leashed. Sometimes we let him loose in the woods and, I swear, it was his Disneyland. We nicknamed him "My Little Pony" in a nod to his thundering paws on the trails. His ability to navigate with grace, racing past with a mere inch or two between us, never tripping or clipping behind the knees, amazed us.
Over the years, he's enjoyed three canine siblings plus a guest dog. He mellowed so much that he became the wise old dude in the neighborhood, the one parents let their two year old children approach to gently pet. His brown eyes, patient, quiet, and kind, mirrored the soft pat-pat-pats of wee hands. He ruled Hank Hill, the area in the yard where he dug a cooling hole under the trees and listened to Timberstock concerts.
Every day, John and I look at each other, wordlessly asking: How is Hank today? And so far, Hank is still here, sleepy and happy. Noisy. The cough has returned. We watch him closely, pledging to make sure he's loved until he crosses that legendary "Rainbow Bridge."
We all know the answer to the question, "Who's a good boy?"
Move in day, 2014. Hank loves his backyard woods.
Hank on a pot. What a nut.
Last fall, 2024. The woods still call his name.
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