Henry Hound, January 24, 1999 - January 12, 2009

It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to leave Mr. Henry in the embrace of family and head off for my adventure secure in the knowledge that he was well-cared for, safe and loved. Then I would return and he would be a bit greyer and creakier, but generally sound and happy and overjoyed to see me. But you know what they say about the best laid plans, and cancer sucks for dogs just like it sucks for people.

Instead of that idyllic scenario, yesterday I bundled my poor, skinny, sick hound up in one of his old blankets and rode with him out to the vet where I said goodbye to him for the last time.

I almost did it on Friday, but I guess I just wasn't ready. I feel kind of bad about that because though he didn't seem to be in obvious pain, it was clear he wasn't comfortable either, but I made him stay for those extra few days anyways. I guess I wanted to have a bit more time with him, though I knew it really wouldn't make any difference. It's not like I could spoil him with all his favourite treats - he hadn't eaten in a week and refused everything except the occasional bit of water (though he did lick out my rice pudding bowl!). There wasn't much point in taking him for a walk either. He was weak, and it was cold out, and he seemed to take no joy in it. Mostly he seemed to want to lay in his kennel, or on the couch, so I spent a lot of time sitting nearby, petting him and talking to him and wishing he could understand. I apologized for things I didn't do and could have, and for things I shouldn't have done and did, and most of all for not being able to fix this horrible thing. And I told him over and over again that he was a good boy.

I know I gave him a good life; he even came with me to work most days, which is something most dogs can only dream of. In many ways, he didn't know how good he had it. And I guess I didn't know how good I had it either, except I always kind of felt like he was a better dog than I deserved. I am haunted by all the walks not taken, and treats not given and plates not licked and chins not scratched. It stings when I remember every harsh word and every sharp tug on the leash and every time I thought he was annoying or smelly or inconvenient. And I'm haunted by the fun times we had together too. Not really the big things, but the little habits and rituals that make up the majority of life. Even though it was -20°, I wanted to go out and sit on the step so that he would come and stick his nose under my arm to make me pet him.

By Monday morning, though, he was so tired and worn out and just done that I felt bad I'd made the appointment at the vet for 3:30pm instead of 9:30am. And it was over so fast - it sounds cliché, but it really was just like he went to sleep. It seemed strange to think that he was really gone. Even now it still hasn't really sunk in I think. It will take a while.

So if you're a pet owner (and God, why do any of us do it when this is how it ends?), please give your beast an extra hug or two today, and cut them a bit of slack the next time they do something that makes your blood boil. Because believe me when I say that no matter how long it lasts, it will still be over too soon.

I miss you buddy. You're my best hound.

Henry's first baby picture.