Henry died just past midnight this morning. We’d taken him to the Emergency Vet and after giving him some medication to help calm the seizure, we talked to the vet about his prognosis. We decided the best course of action would be to euthanise him.
Henry was the most beautiful dog. Everyone loved him. He came from the Lort Smith Animal Hospital when he was eight weeks old. Stella needed a brother or sister and he was the best birthday present Paul has ever received. We took Stella with us, and after walking past and having her reject all the other dogs, the staff there told us about Henry and brought him out. He’d been found as a tiny pup on the streets of North Melbourne with a German Shepherd, who we assumed was his mother. His coat was German Shepherd colouring, he was tan and white on his chest like a Kelpie, and he had a little terrier shaped head with a quizzical look and floppy ears. He was so small, and he had big pale rings around his eyes like glasses. They got smaller as his head grew bigger, but he still looked adorable. The two dogs hit it off immediately. They played and played and played while we filled out all the paperwork. Somebody else had taken Henry, but had to return him to the Animal Hospital a day or so earlier as they were unwell and couldn’t care for him properly. We were so thankful that we’d been given the chance to adopt such a beautiful boy.
Back when he was still small, he used to squeeze into the outside toilet at our Caulfield house and steal the rolls of toilet paper. We’d often come home to a proud as punch Henry sitting in the paper-strewn yard.
At Caulfield, both puppies would sleep inside in the living room, and in the mornings when Paul got up early and opened the doors, Henry would sneak down to our bedroom and, quiet as he could, crawl up onto the futon and snuggle into my tummy. Stella would always jump and lick boisterously, and get sent outside as a result, but not Henry.
Sometimes when he was confused by something, he would cock his head, and if he was still confused, he would cock it further. It was the most adorable thing in the world. Especially when he cocked his head while sitting with his front paws crossed over one another. He didn’t grow up to be as big as we expected, but his legs were always too long for his body.
We would laugh at little children in the street who were scared of his underbite.
We would laugh with delight in the street when he sang along in perfect tune with the ambulance sirens.
I’ve had a very rough year. And now I have no Henry to cuddle and lick away my tears and comfort me when I’m feeling sad that he’s gone.
Stella is on the couch with us now. She’s quiet and curled up and lets out a big sigh every so often. We all miss him so much.
We dug a grave in the yard this morning, in his favourite place to lie in the sun. We buried him with some of his towels — he would always want to sit on a towel, even on the grass. I put in a top that Vetti gave me a while back — it had blown off the line one day and was in tatters by the time I found it. Henry and Stella had quite a bit of fun that day. We put in a big slice of fresh bread loaded with Nuttelex and Vegemite and cheese. He loved cheese, and knew the sound of the food processor meant that we were grating it for nachos. His other favourite sound was the microwave beep, because that meant his dinner was ready, and dinner was his absolute favourite thing in the world. He would do a tapdance of impatience as we scooped it into his bowl, and if we were feeling scampish, we could actually make him let out a high-pitched bark of exasperation.
I put in some fresh cut jasmine from our front yard so he would smell good and a little folded crane. We laid some calico over him before filling in the grave.
Goodbye Henry. We will never forget you.
