Henry the Dog

Never have I owed so much to someone who does so little.

Henry the Small White Dog

If you were to step into a magic cabinet and 30 seconds later step back out into an entirely different environment, you’d surely freak out. “WHERE AM I? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE? GET ME BACK TO REALITY! HELP!”

But that’s only if the cabinet were truly magic, and not just an elevator. Humans are somehow able to crack the code of that technology. Because we are superior beings, as proven by space travel, never killing one another (except during war, thuggery, rage, marital annoyance, simple convenience and blowing Caribbean speedboaters to Kingdom Come) and not licking our privates in public.

Versus lower species — such as Henry the Small White Dog, my ward and friend of the past 13 years. Yet, a little while ago, I stepped out of an elevator with him into a wholly dissimilar destination than the one we’d moments earlier left behind and he padded out as if nothing were amiss. Please explain how he, a dog, can process the magic without getting disoriented. He goes nuts when a pedestrian gets too near our house — i.e., walking within our ZIP code — but he nonchalantly ignores a magic portal?

E.B. White gave us Wilbur, who was — according to the barn spider Charlotte — “some pig.” I submit that Henry is some dog.

Although I can produce no further evidence. Elevator acceptance is his only skill. He does not fetch. He does not sit or stand on command. When summoned by name he just lies in situ, like a furry garden ornament. My small white dog hasn’t a care in the world. Or a thought — except, I suppose, the previously alluded to, “I believe I shall now stop in front of the post office and lick my balls.”

I love him so.

The occasion for this tribute is that the other day Henry the Small White Dog had a seizure. This was for me a frightening episode of déjà vu, calling me back to when I was 15 and walking my sweet-natured collie, who suddenly seized. It was horrifying. And very sad. It was a brain tumor, and within 24 hours she was put down. I’ve buried many friends and most of my family, but never have I sobbed so much, before or since.

I’m out of the country, and couldn’t book with a veterinarian until this afternoon, and naturally I’m frightened. Even though, objectively, Henry has so little to offer. Not even his paw. For 13 years I’ve begged him to “shake, rattle and dog,” and for 13 years he has responded with abject indifference. I might as well have adopted a hamster. Or a set of barbells. If he were a schnauzer, I doubt he’d even schnauze.

Which may explain his remarkable unflappability in the magic cabinet. It’s not that he somehow intuits the ascent and descent as humans do. He’s just too stupid to notice.

He’s also not, shall I say, much impressively dogly. Henry is no stately German shepherd or athletic Labrador. He’s a puny Shih-poo, the runt of his litter, who looks like something you just pulled out of the lint trap. With the temperament and scruff of The Dude in The Big Lebowski, he is no threat to man or beast. Even if he were, he has only one tooth. There are more intimidating ladybugs.

But I cannot express to you the simple joy of his presence, curled up at the foot of my bed, or romping unleashed after a productive walk, or just sitting at my computer, lapping a single-malt, doom pawing the internet.

He is my soft and ever-present companion who sometimes even lets me cuddle him and happily wags his tail when sinking his tooth into his breakfast. He also has a theme song, which I penned long ago, roughly to the tune of “Felix the Cat.”

Henry, the dog.
The wonderful, wonderful dog.
He is so cute and he’s so vague ’cause he’s a fucking dog.
He is Henry, the wonderful dog.

But also, inevitably, his “some dog” is in decline. Like his master, he has increasing difficulty getting on and off a chair. He needs to be walked three or four times a day. And now the seizure. The flashbacks are haunting, and I am quite nervous about the vet visit.

Also mourning already for the dreaded someday.

“Henry. Henry. Come to Daddy. Henry! Come on, puppy boy! Henry … oh, for fuck’s sake, never mind.”