Hank, Hank, Hank

 Today is one week since my dearest, darling, sweetest boy dog, Hank Williams, Jr., crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  At least I can type that without bursting into gut-wrenching sobs.

Hank.  Hank, Hank, Hank.  The Hankmonster.  Hankness.  The Hankster.  Beagle known and loved by neighborhoods both in Minnetonka and Belleair Beach.  My sweet boy.  My sweetest baby.  Perpetual puppy dog.  

Garbage eater.  Underwear and sock chewer.  Snatcher of all types of meat, in particular Boars Head ham, from counters, tables, plates, sandwiches.  Necessitator of carrying your plate of food with you as you retrieve something you forgot in another room, since upon your return, the protein on your plate would have been gobbled in your absence.  He developed one food related trick late in life.  Upon my putting a meal on the kitchen table, Hank would scratch at the back door, his signal that he needed to go out.  In the time it would take me to execute the five steps to the door, then open it, he would jump onto my chair and gobble my food.  Crafty devil.

Unlike our previous beagle, Emmitt Franklin James, Hank was not much of a howler or barker.  As he aged, he relinquished rabbit and squirrel chasing to the younger pups in the neighborhood.  In his prime, however, he could be heard throughout backyards for a couple blocks if he was on a rabbit prowl.  Later in life, the only animals that got his dander up were the deer that occasionally wander into our yard, checking out the bird feeder.  As soon as I heard his low, throaty growl, I knew to glance out the window for deer.

This past summer, Hank gave up the ghost of running out of the yard if he was inadvertently let out of the house--or if, in his stealthy manner, he would casually watch someone headed for the door, then shoot past them as soon as the screen door was opened a crack.  Naturally he did not return to the command, "Hank.  Come."  While Molly and the boys were living with us, Jack learned to yell, "Hank, come here!  I have ham!"  Hank required proof of same; he would approach if you chased him with the deli bag containing the ham but not return of his own volition.  Ham in mouth was necessary before you could slip your fingers under his collar.  The second method to get him to return was to bring out his leash, as if you were going to take him for a walk.  More than once I told him that I didn't get it.  He had his freedom but he'd return, prancing, when you offered him a leash.

I very much enjoyed his relatively constant companionship in the backyard this summer,  He'd hang around as I gardened, lay in the sunshine as I sat in the lounge chair, reading (only after his attempts to devour whatever I'd brought out to eat).  Occasionally he would jump up on the lounge with me, leaving little to no space for my legs.  When it grew too warm for him, he'd trot into the shade and collapse.  Seldom, when I went into the house and he followed me, did he remain where it was cooler.  Back outdoors.  My kinda dog,  Late this summer he developed the habit of laying in the hostas where we couldn't see him.  A couple times I panicked, calling his name, until his floppy-eared head popped up among the variegated leaves.  He also hung around the front yard, primarily sniffing where the multitudes of dogs who are walked through our neighborhood would have left their scent (or p-mail, as it's been called).  Should another dog be walked by, Hank, an extremely submissive animal, might follow, sometimes far enough the dog owner would ring our bell to alert us that our dog was trying to follow them.  Had they waited, Hank would have lost interest and trotted up the driveway.  He was like that.

We noticed he was slowing down, as old dogs do.  Hank required an assist to jump up on the beds or couch, where he spent his days snoozing.  When the Spousal Unit™ took him for his annual vet visit before we headed down to Florida, I was concerned the vet would find something was significantly ailing Hank.  The vet attributed Hank's demonstrable issues to getting older, something I hear at my annual doctor visits all the time.

Last week, Hank had a hard week.  He slept restlessly, very unusual for him.  He turned his nose up at treats he would not only expect, but demand from us.  Most concerning to me was his reluctance to snarf down his morning piece of ham.  I tried putting it in his dog food bowl, in case he changed his mind, only to discover it untouched later in the day.  But even as he seemed to be failing, the next day he was back to a version of his perky self, enough to give us hope that whatever was bothering him could be attributed to a virus rather than a disease or impending organ failure.

Thursday sunset, Hank accompanied us to the daily gathering of snowbirds where he was feted with greetings by our neighbors.  A neighbor's granddaughter, who had a previous bad experience with a dog but who had become accustomed to Hank, had been working up courage to pet him all week and she succeeded in doing so!  

Friday morning it was excruciatingly clear Hank had taken the proverbial turn for the worse.  I scooped him up in my arms, sat with him outside on the patio, felt his heart racing, saw his labored breathing.  His face remained calm, sedate yet I could tell he was sending his signal that he was all done.  I put Hank on the grass in the sunshine, where the Spousal Unit™ spent some sweet moments with him while I researched the local veterinarians.

We arrived at the vet office where Hank was rapidly diagnosed with a ruptured spleen.  He was, indeed, all done.  With both of us holding him and whispering into his ear how much he was loved, he crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

So.  Hank.  Hank, Hank, Hank.

My hands ache to be soothed by petting him.

Naturally we're still looking for him everywhere, all the nooks and crannies where he would sprawl out to avail himself of the Florida sunshine and warm breezes.  When I come in the door, I listen futilely for the sound of his tags clinking as Hank would come to greet me.  Our bed is enormously empty without him snuggling up against one or both of us.  I'm aware this will fade but the space he had in our hearts will never diminish.  Dogs not only leave their pawprints there.  They settle in with their idiosyncrasies you will return to and celebrate as memories for the rest of your life.  

My sweet baby.

Hank.  King of the Neighborhood.