Today is Henry’s fourth birthday. I wish I could buy him a steak or a hamburger or a hot dog or something meaty he would adore, but Henry is one of those persnickety allergic white dogs who has to eat a very strict and limited diet, otherwise he scratches down to the skin and looks like hamburger meat himself. God, it’s awful if he goes off his pitiful little diet. I used to cook for Henry: fresh meat, veggies, and I’d give him flax seed oil. Now, he just eats this canned single ingredient crap that he just loves and the espresso cup full of the dog cereal that he also just loves and with which I bribe him. And he’s perfect. Thank God for the vet who told me to take him off the healthy and nutritious diet I was giving him and convinced me to put him on the canned crap.
I got Henry because I always wanted a dog, my whole life, and never had one, other than the dogs my mother would bring home once in a while for my brother because he had no father and would promptly give away once the dog did something unseemly in the house as dogs are want to do. Neiman, the cocker spaniel, Flipper, the boxer, Count JoJo, the miniature poodle, Coleen, the dachshund (whom my sister called dog do), they all made brief tenures chez nous and they all departed not very long after they arrived. I loved them all.
My son and I longed for a dog when he was growing up, and when he was punished in school for skipping (which happened more than I care to discuss) he would always opt for working at the pound to be near the pups. And once he brought home a picture he had taken there of the dog he wanted with all his heart but our horrible landlord whom I’ve written about before, wouldn’t let us have him. FUCK HIM. And curse his memory. I’m glad he’s dead. But enough of that. I’m over all that as of 2016. Bud Riley villain of my early years in LA, I let thee go….at least I hope I do.
Anyway, my son grew up dog-less and left home. We moved to a dog friendly place and then when my son’s cat died, my shrink who is a devout dog-a-phile, told me it was time I grew up and got a dog.
The first dog I brought home was from a rescue place I’d been told about that operated out of the back of a clothing store on Montana in Santa Monica. I had requested a small dog, one I could carry with me between LA and New York, and so it came to pass that I got a call one day, and the doggie rescue person told me she had a perfect little poodle for me and I should come and get her. I got in the car and did just that.
She was a sweet little white thing and she had come from a terrible home and her name, God help her, turned out to be Mary. Why on earth would anyone, even a rescue person who is bored already with the naming of dogs, name a dog Mary?
Mary wasn’t “my dog” and I ended up taking her back with a huge donation to the pet rescue place after a couple of days. It took me nearly a year to get over the experience and to this day I wake up in the middle of the night and worry about Mary. Would I have kept her if she hadn’t had the same bloody name as I do? And if she hadn’t come from a terrible place where she was abused reminding me of things I’d like to forget? I have no idea. All I know is that she broke my heart, and every time I looked at her I wanted to cry. Poor Mary.
Just around the time my shrink was reminding me that I had always wanted a dog, I reconnected with Nodie Williams who comes from Shreveport and also went to the convent I went to: St. Vincent’s home for wayward girls. Nodie raises Jack Russells, at Frayed Knot Farm in Arkansas. If you ever want a Jack Russell call Nodie. She said she had a little guy named Seamus, who was the runt of his litter and had a very sweet nature. I sent Nodie a check, she started calling Seamus “Henry”, and I proceeded to be scared out of my mind for the next weeks, until I got down to Arkansas and met Henry, my perfect little pup, whose been by my side ever since.
Actually Henry isn’t perfect. He’s a maniac. He barks for no good reason, he snips at children, once in a while he raises his leg at the front door, but I’ve never met a better little doggie or one who is a better match for me and my husband. And Nodie was right. He’s unbelievably sweet… when he wants to be, he’s a perfect little angel.
Henry started out in a horrible little dog cage known as “the crate”, then we axed the crate, he took over a chiropractic pillow that was supposed to cure my neck, and then of course the thing happened that we swore would never happen, he sleeps in the bed with us. Right between us in fact.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, when I reach out to pat Henry, I’ll find myself holding hands with my husband who has also reached out to do the same: find Henry.
He’s our great solace, our funny little dog child, our ferocious little fellow and the fucking best dog in the world.
Would I trade him for a well behaved dog? No. Yes. Sometimes. But actually no. Henry is my beast, and I’m his person. And that’s that.
by 
