This is Hank, and he was our best friend. He meant more to Casey and I than I could ever put into words. But I wanted you to know who he was and how big an impact - and how big a part of our family - he truly represented. I originally wrote the story below in 2005, shortly after Hank left us.
Goodbye, old friend
Coming to grips with the loss of a dear friend is one of the most difficult things we must do. The connections forged between pets and their owners are unbreakable. Casey and I lost our 12-year-old Chocolate Lab Hank last weekend, and coping with his death will be a lengthy, difficult process. Remembering the joy Hank brought to everyone's lives, however, makes dealing with the pain much easier.
Hank helped make our house a home. He was an ever-present part of our lives, a pre-dawn alarm clock and the last thing we saw before going to bed. When you foolishly shut the bathroom door to have some privacy, it wasn't long before Hank would poke his head through the crack, looking for attention. He always moved to be nearer to you, his graying eyebrows and tilting head convincing you that nothing was more important at that moment than him. And nothing ever was.
Everyone had his or her own nickname for Hank. Casey, Hank's owner of nine years, and I loved to call him Frank. Casey's mother called him Panky or The Pank. My father called him Big Brown. No matter what pet name we called him, he was always Hank. And he was such a Hank, too. Rarely has a name so fit a personality.
Hank was a sniffer of floors and a cleaner-upper of spills. Armed with an appetite to envy, he rarely let you eat in peace. Upon making what she considered the perfect sandwich, Casey had no sooner accidentally dropped it on the floor than Hank greedily – and in one bite – scooped it up. Eating always came easily to Hank, who was originally owned, fed and overfed by a pizza shop employee. He never did like carrots, though.
It was hard to miss Hank's trademark groan, too, audible every time he lay down near you. Nor was it hard to miss his throaty yawn, so powerful it seemed his ears were about to meet in the back each time. His graying lips had the tendency to sometimes catch on his teeth, forming a bit of a smile. Personality was never a problem for Hank.
Neither was making other people feel better. Hank, in his younger days, was a therapy dog, brightening the days of those he visited. His was an empathetic soul. When you were down, Hank was there with a friendly paw, wagging tail or knowing look. When you were sad, he cheered you up. When you were happy, he made you happier. It was his nature.
It's funny how guilty I feel going to bed early and waking up later than usual. As I stir in the early morning, the unmistakable sound of Hank walking across our hardwood floors is strangely absent. So, too, is his excitement at seeing me at the top of the stairs, prior to my feeding him and taking him out before I leave for work. I was hardly able to move without a frenzied Hank blocking my path or stepping between my legs. My newfound freedom of movement will take some getting used to.
More than anything, I find myself overcome by a profound sense of emptiness. Hank filled a void that I didn't even know existed. Having never before owned a dog, I was completely unprepared for how big a part of my life Hank became. Now, I look to where his bed was and expect to see him there. I see the bag of treats atop the refrigerator and expect to hand him one. I see his leash in the mud room and expect to use it. But he's not here – and the emptiness is palpable.
When he was alive, I always wondered what Hank was thinking. What I wouldn't give, I thought, to be able to speak with Hank for just five minutes. How did he feel? Was he happy? Did he love Casey and I as much as we loved him? Now, however, I find myself wishing to simply see him again. To shake his hand in exchange for a treat (or two). To scratch his belly as he rolled around. To play fetch. To take a long walk. To go for a ride. To kiss his soft forehead. To tell him how much I loved him.
This weekend, when we visit Casey's family we'll also visit Hank, who lies near the house Casey grew up in. We'll soon plant bulbs there, around his grave, before autumn fades and winter sets in. Next spring, when the snows melt and the sun reappears, Hank's final resting place will be covered in beautiful greens and vivid flowers – just the kind of space he loved running around in.
Hank was a good boy. And he will be missed.
