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Henry, the dog, isn’t dead. He’s fine. In fact, he’s right here by my side, not doing anything.
Be not alarmed. He is 11-years-old, long eligible for senior discounts, and has never done anything. He literally has no skills.
Not sitting on command. Not rolling over. Not bringing me my slippers. He can’t even fetch. Believe me, I’ve tried. I go through the motions, and he just stands there looking at me like I’m a lunatic. Why are you holding a stick? Why did you throw it over there? Sorry, dude, I’m holding my ground.
Actually, if I’m being honest, I don’t own slippers.
But you take my point. Since Henry was a puppy, I’ve tried to get him to shake on command. I take his paw and say, “Shake, rattle and dog!,” which I think is witty and he does not. I’ve done this bit approximately 10,000 times. He will let me shake his paw, but he takes no joy in it. Not once, not once, has he offered his leg of his own volition. It’s more of a let’s-get-this-over-with sort of vibe. I’m just grateful he indulges me, however indifferently.
He’s a white shih-poo, a lap dog, who wants no part of my lap. If he leans against my legs while snoozing it’s a great triumph. That’s a little counter-intuitive, because — at least when he’s groomed — he’s so fluffy and adorable. This creates the wrong impression, so I generally let him get pretty scruffy. Most of the time he doesn’t look like a pampered little prince. He looks like something you took out of the lint trap.
The only thing Henry can be counted on for is some watchdog work. He’s kind of a canine motion detector. If someone is skulking suspiciously around our neighborhood, he will bark and bark until the threat is gone. By “skulking suspiciously,” of course, I mean “existing.” And by “neighborhood” I mean “ZIP code.”
That’s pretty much it. Oh, OK, there’s also the occasional unprovoked stampede. Every now and then, based on no apparent stimulus, he will tear in circles around the house, four or five laps of thundering paw beats, like a scene from Red River. Then, just as suddenly, he will cease. The only other thing resembling typical dog behavior is when — equally unprovoked — he’ll flip himself onto his side and spin in tight circles on the floor, as if mimicking Curly Howard of the Three Stooges. That odd display of instinct is how it dawned on me, after a slight 60-year-delay, that Curly’s bizarro shtick was based on mimicking dogs. It’s a little funnier now that I get it. I’d drop Mr. Howard a note of appreciation, but he’s been deceased since 1952.
I’ve also cultivated an even greater appreciation of a 1960s variety show act called Bob Williams and Louie. All I can say is watch the clip. Williams made a career out of having an indifferent dog, and it was very, very funny. I would try to monetize Henry that way, but he keeps falling behind on his SAG-AFTRA dues.
So, just to recap, Henry doesn’t do anything. But that also means he doesn’t do anything bad. He doesn’t bite the mail carrier. He doesn’t chew up the upholstery. He doesn’t poop on the rugs. Once, when he was an adolescent (two), I caught him at my computer, on a website called SHILFfantasies.com, but that was an isolated incident. He is listless, and he is lustless. When we see other dogs on our walks, he doesn’t have anything to do with them, neither a snarl nor a sniff. He’s as indifferent about sex as he is about everything else.
Not long ago, we were on our walk when a woman pulled up next to us in a Cadillac. I recognized her as the sleazy realtor who had attempted to stiff me on repair work when her client sold me my house. She didn’t recognize me, but she was quite taken with Henry. She said, “Oh, he’s so cute, What kind is he?” I replied, “Well, supposedly he’s half Shih Tzu and half poodle, but I think he’s about 40% cat.”
“Really?” she said. “I didn’t realize that was possible.”
So, yes, Henry is dumb, but not the dumbest character in my neighborhood.
Now, you might wonder, why this tribute, appearing out of nowhere like a Henry stampede? The planet is on fire, fascism is taking over Italy, Sweden and the United States, and you’re giving us 900 words on your pet? Well, it isn’t out of nowhere. I wrote this in my head before 6 o’clock this morning. My phone rang at 5:30. It was a loved one, and I sat bolt upright in a panic, yelping HELLO?!, fearing God knows what. Only it was a butt dial. No emergency, no tragedy, no bad news. Just a brief and vivid fright.
The thing is, I was not alone. Next to me in bed was Henry, the stupid dog. He looked at me quizzically, as in “What the fuck was that all about?” (That’s a surmise, I must confess, just like the interior monologue over fetching. He is a beast of nature, and he cannot talk.)
“Never mind, Henry. Just a butt dial,” I said, with my actual voice, out loud. Whereupon he closed his eyes and resumed his dog slumbers. That was a comfort. He was there.
REMINDER: Bully Pulpit is a subscriber-supported enterprise, which bills itself as a “wry and pointed take on politics, media and society.” That characterization is true, but, as you learned this week, not complete. Bully Pulpit turns out to be about politics, media, society and pet ownership. So, if you happen to be in the paying cohort of the BP community, you get even more than you paid for. If you are a free subscriber, you get even more than you didn’t pay for. As observed in a recent plea, we pride ourselves in speaking truth to power. That’s our principal selling point in asking our most committed subscribers to convert to “paid.” Does it not sweeten the pot to know, besides speaking truth to power, we also speak English to dogs? It has to, right? Please consider leveling up.
Having been a passionate news junkie for decades and trying to express to my family and friends my concerns I feel like Henry is in the majority. Not when it comes to the Chiefs in the Kansas City area where I live but , yeah, about everything else.
I have two words: Labrador retriever. They tend to be the antiHenry, passionate about everything with food leading the parade, eager to walk, driven to retrieve, desperate for your every sign of affection. My third is closing fast on her 13th birthday. She is unlikely to celebrate her 14th I'm sad to say. She has been an extraordinary companion.
She still goes on a one mile walk with me every morning though now I have to lift her in and out of the back of the Forester. She was never fond of the long hikes - even in her youth she was a three-miler. She'd do the 10 and 12 mile hikes but let it be known after 3 that this was for me not for her. Now she's had major orthopedic surgery on both stifles and has her share of osteoarthritis. So one mile is the magic. And the swimming which she dearly loved is out after a couple of vestibular events.
But life is still good for the lioness in winter. The Honeycrisp apples are now perfectly ripe and she eats her fill. Before that it was the peaches and the plums before that. Soon it will be back to a steady diet of kibble yet every morning and every evening you'd think the coming meal was going to be a great surprise, a culinary masterpiece that demands to be consumed in the shortest possible period of time.
I hope she gets another spring. Springtime has always been her favorite time of year with the air alive with an explosion of new scents. If not she will take her place under the big willow and in her way be part of the new scents and colors of April.
She's a good dog.