"Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring--it was peace."
-- Milan Kundera
On one blustery, bustling Saturday afternoon in December 1994, I braved the madding crowd at the mall to buy a few gifts for my family. I dashed into the pet store to pick up some rawhide treats for Barksdale and Ditto, the two Basset Hounds that lived with my partner Charles and me. I spotted a puppy cowering in the corner of a cage, unnerved by the din created by the other animals in the shop. I tried to ignore him, but something kept bringing me back to look at him. The more I stared, the more interest he showed in me. There were other people around, but he stared at me and tentatively wagged his tail. I asked the attendant to remove him from the cage so I could meet him. The moment I cradled him in my lap I knew I belonged to him.
Charles and I had had a difficult summer and autumn dealing with his diagnosis of lymphoma and the subsequent chemotherapy and radiation. He was depressed. I was stressed as I continued to teach eighth grade science in an inner-city school while tending to his medical and emotional needs. All I needed was another dog to be responsible for. But we welcomed this beautiful animal to our home nonetheless. We named him O. Henry Horatio and he made it so abundantly clear to the other dogs that he was in charge that Charles nicknamed him Henny Bo Barracuda.
Fast-forward to March 1996: I had a funeral to-do list from Charles and there was one task I hadn't been able to complete. There was an African-American lady named Alfreda who was named for Charles' mother. He had heard her sing when he was a child and had always remembered her angelic voice. He wanted her to sing "The Lord's Prayer" at his funeral, but I had no way of finding her. For weeks and weeks I called friends and churches in Yazoo City asking if anyone knew her...but I was met with only dead ends.
Charles lay in a hospital bed in our bedroom drifting in and out of consciousness. I was sitting in a chair watching dappled sunlight dance across his waxen, yet peaceful, face. The phone rang. The caller cheerfully asked to speak to Mr. North. I told her he wasn't available. She responded, "This is Alfreda Johnson from Yazoo City. I was a friend of his momma's and have been thinking about him a lot lately. You think he would mind if I stop by for a visit?" I explained his illness and told her he would love to see her, even if he couldn't see her.
The next morning Alfreda arrived at the same time as our priest. And, of course, with all the activity, Henry, Barksdale and Ditto were dashing around the yard barking at the interlopers. Father Bill, Alfreda and I gathered around the bed and Charles stirred, opening his eyes. Alfreda held his hand and stroked his hair as Bill administered the last rites. As soon as he began reciting the liturgy, the Bassets were suddenly quiet as they sat just outside the bedroom window. Afterwards, Charles whispered to Alfreda, "Will you sing for me?" She put down her purse, cleared her throat and began... "Our Father, which are in heaven..." As though Alfreda's softly booming voice needed accompaniment, Henry began the most mournful baying and was soon joined by Barksdale and Ditto. Charles died two weeks later and I was alone with my hounds.
Almost fourteen ye
ars later, I sit here at a different dining table, in a different city reflecting on my life. Barksdale and Ditto died 4 years ago and my Henry is 15 1/2 years old. His eyes are clouded with cataracts, his body weakened by congestive heart failure. Tumors are growing in his bladder. He has no appetite and is slowly wasting away.I went to see Dr. Ken today and made the appointment for tomorrow at 10:45 a.m. My little dog who has tagged along with me through my roller coaster life will be leaving me. Where he'll go, I don't know. But I 'd like to think that there's a man somewhere sitting on a Victorian wire bench with a Heineken in his hand waiting to see the Barracuda again. And that makes losing him seem almost joyful.
I have shared my life with many pets and have grieved when they've died. This is different. Saying goodbye to Henry will be saying goodbye to Charles and Barksdale and Ditto. For good.
