Henry and Quietness

When I was four or five I lived in an apartment. The kind that smelled like smoke when you left your room and the neighbors banged on the ceilings with brooms when you laughed too loud at the story your brother told. I learned to swim there. I was diagnosed with asthma there, after blowing up a balloon and my mother recognizing the wheezing. My dad was laid off for a few months, and I didn't know that until last year. The dog that I considered mine at the time was named Walter and he died while we lived there. We couldn't keep him in that little tiny apartment - after all, he was a beagle who would track cars for days on end, only to come back to us. I always blamed homesickness. Walter missed us. I remember crying on the floor in front of the sliding, mirrored doors of our front closet.

We moved to the green house a year after that. A house where I sold lemonade on the fourth of July. Where my neighbor's house had a bullet shot through it. Where we took care of each other. Where I learned that I am an excellent offensive player, and maybe a less excellent defensive player. Where my friend's brother's body was found in the woods. Where I thought sirens were the soundtrack of life. I looked online, my child mind found dog after dog that I knew would be perfect. It's a testament to my father's love for me. Really. That my father took me to see a part poodle puppy, and then a great dane puppy that was immediately vetoed. Then a surprise. I hadn't gone to see this dog. No, this dog came home in what I remember being a milk carton, though I'm sure it wasn't. He was tiny and his fur was softer than it's ever been since. I remember a bar under our table that stood maybe three inches off the ground that this puppy could walk under. We named him Henry and sang the song "Henry the Eighth" by Herman's Hermits. He bit the feet off of all my Barbies.

That isn't it though. You know? He wasn't a puppy for long, eventually he was house trained. There were all these kids that were constantly in our house. I would be one of the older ones generally, but our friends were always over. It quickly became apparent that although Henry was five years younger than me, he would always be an old man. And despite his very apparent dog-ness, he would always be a cat. He is never all that loving to children (no matter how fond of them he is) he snarls and ducks away, only to return moments later to make sure that they're okay. He just wants to lie around, or go on brisk walks. He doesn't really like petting, at least not when he doesn't want it. He was never all that interested in fetch or other games. Yet, he's the best. Every time that I fell ill Henry was there. He could sense it. As soon as I told my mom that I was feverish or nauseous or whatever, he was there. He lay next to me in the quietness. When I slept he lay next to me and kept me safe. When I cried there he was, and I told him everything. Every heartbreak, every insecurity, the way I knew I wasn't enough. He'd rest his head on my knee and he was there.

We moved to a blue house. A house where the neighbors make popcorn balls for Halloween and over decorate for Christmas. Where the yard is big enough that we can have more than one tree. He celebrated sixteen years this month. His joints ache and he has to give each limb a break, one at a time. He can't jump onto the couch or the bed anymore. He really can't see and he really can't hear, but he's been hearing selectively for years now. I know that sixteen is a lot of years for him. That he's loved as much as his little heart allows. And I know that I think a lot of dogs are annoying even as they are beautiful. But as I write this with foggy eyes, I know that I will ugly cry - bawling, on the floor, snot dripping from my nose, red eyes, hollow stomach - when he leaves us behind. Because even when he trips me walking underfoot. Even when I have to pick him up to get him in the house. Even then I feel it in the quietness.