My mom and I drove out to the middle of nowhere to look at puppies. My father wanted a chocolate lab because his favorite dog from childhood was a chocolate lab. We had no luck finding one (including a fruitless two hour drive to a run-down house in a different middle of nowhere). He agreed that we should get the dog during the summer and that if that meant looking at yellow labs, then so be it. When mom and I got to the breeders house were shown around to the back where there sat a few large, clean cages. We were introduced to Hank’s mother – a pale white dog – and his father – a dark red dog. From there it was over to the puppy cage. The puppies were nine in number, about two months old, piled in a ball. They climbed over one another, moving slowly, sloppily as they jostled for the best napping position. The breeder grabbed one dog at a time and put them on the grass. Each pup would look a little confused, blink, and sit quietly. After three or four boring pups out came Hank. He was placed on the grass and immediately went to work. He corralled his brothers and sisters and quickly led them into a ditch. It was love at first sight.
On the way home I sat in the back seat with Hank. My mother talked about wanting to name him Murphy, but we didn’t make anything definite. We stopped at Mac-Donald’s and Hank gummed a french fry most of the way home.
We introduced our new pup to my dad and he immediately came up with Hank. I don’t think he was naming the dog after anyone, but we tell my great uncle that it was an homage to him. Shortly after being christened Hank walked off the front porch and into the gardenia bushes. It didn’t slow him down and came out the other side. He was immediately given his first nickname, Hank the Tank.
The first year was filled with terrible claw-marks and gashes on arms, teeth marks on couches and books, and a Bush cd that disappeared, fragments of which were later found featuring tiny teeth-marks. Due to my father’s excessive snoring, my mother spent a great deal of time on the living-room futon. We’d leave it in bead form for Hank. I taught him to wrestle on that futon. It became his piece of furniture shortly thereafter (he was banned from the couch when wet).
Over the years we taught Hank how to swim, fetch, and be obedient. He was a fast learner, and impossible well behaved when he needed to be. My mom created an albums worth of “Hank-Songs” that she has yet to record. He crowded our small kitchen. At times we would have two cats, three humans, and hundred pound labrador all vying for cold-cuts and conversation.
Hank didn’t learn to properly eat until the final year of his life. We was a grazer. I’ve never seen a dog so absentminded in his eating habits. He would lower his massive head to his bowl, pick up some kibble and walk away, dried food falling from his lips. He’d do this throughout the day, never eating more than a few bites at a time.
He loved the water. We became especially close the summer after I graduated from New College. He had hurt his shoulder playing with another dog and I decided that hydrotherapy was the only way to go. Everyday I’d check the tides and we’d head down to the bay to swim. My parents won’t really get down with Hank at the bay. The water is a little gross, hot in the summer, and my father has been stung by a stingray down there. They’ll wade out a bit and throw the frisbee, but I wouldn’t say that swim with him (that’s reserved for Fort Desoto). I, however, am more than willing to purify myself in the waters Tampa Bay. We’d walk out to low less than ass deep, forcing Hank to swim or just barely touch bottom. I’d throw the frisbee and we’d race for it. I’d steal the disc and make him chase me. We had fun. He was never a dog who wanted to just play fetch. He’d do it if he had to, but it he preferred to play with you, not for you.
There are a million stories I could tell about Hank. How the only photo my mother carried in her wallet was of Hank (she fixed this, but only after being ridiculed). How he loved birthday cakes. How he’d pout at the sight of suitcases.
Hank was one of my best friends. I don’t mean that he was one of my favorite pets. I mean that he was one of my favorite friends and I loved him.
Hank (the dog) is dead. He got sick on Sunday and died suddenly on Tuesday. We got him the summer before I entered high school. We would have been ten next week. I’m not really in a condition to write about it yet. I’ll try tomorrow.
