Henry the Dog

Henry Nachum Yellin was given his first name by my mother, his second by my father, and earned the surname “Yellin” the first time he crawled over to me on the carpet and laid his head in my lap. Before we adopted him, my Mom was skeptical. She had a stigma in her mind that big, black dogs were viciously aggressive- nothing like the docile and loving personalities of the first greyhounds she’d met, which had swayed her towards dog ownership after decades as a cat-lover.

It was only a few minutes after meeting Henry that her mind was changed. He strut excitedly into our home, barreled clumsily up the stairs, and bee-lined straight for my Mom. Thus began nearly a decade of unconditional love on both of their parts, and Smithers-level sucking up on Henry’s. He knew in seconds who the undisputed Alpha of the pack was, and trailed ruthlessly after her at home, underfoot more often than not, every day following.

Henry was a drama queen. His career as a race dog had been successful and long-lived. And subsequently, he had a habit of inadvertently pulling muscles in his back and legs when he got up too quickly. But rather than whimpering or limping to alert us of his condition, Henry would scream. Not a howl or a bark, but a full-on scream, high as an Opera singer’s cresting note, until one of his humans came to assist him. Of course, by the time we’d arrive he was usually fine, practically smirking at us as we rushed to his aid.

When Henry first became ours, he was as petulant as a teenager. He’d bump our more elderly dog in the shoulder to reach my Mom faster. And when we’d sit down to dinner, and insist he go lie down as well, he’d let out the most melodramatic of sighs as he settled onto the ground.

More than anything else, Henry was a glutton for affection. He sought it out at every turn- pushing his face into your open palm, hopping up on the couch to lean against you, poking at your side again and again until you’d finally cave and stroke his ears the way he liked. He’d beg for food on occasion, and would never turn down a treat, but what Henry really lived for was to lay by your side, your hand on his head, and to be told he was a “Good Boy.”

Although Henry wasn’t our first dog, and wouldn’t be our last, he stood out in his humanity. He seemed to understand every word out of our mouths, from simple exclamations to complex commands. When we spoke, he listened attentively. Not with the quintessential head-tilt that might have indicated he was confused, but with eyes that were intense and focused. Greyhounds are known to have one of the largest hearts among dog breeds, but his eyes told the real story. Vibrantly brown and expressive, Henry could grin, snark, grimace, or pout with a single look.

When I was a teenager, Henry bit every member of my immediate family, on occasion. And on a break from college, in the midst of a full on sob-session after subjecting myself to the 90-minute misery that is Marley and Me, Henry bit me when I stumbled blindly over for comfort, and jolted him from his sleep. We never held it against him. For every half-asleep attack, there were a thousand moments of fully-conscious affection. He loved us far more than he feared us, and years later, he wouldn’t fear us at all.

When we lost our first dog, it was Henry’s quiet devotion that made it bearable. In our years with him, he stood pressed into our sides for every profound loss, and every moment of joy.

People say we mourn the death of a pet the way we would mourn the loss of a child because of their mutual innocence. I’m not so sure. Henry was sharp as a whip, and more clever than many humans I’ve encountered. He understood most things, some better than I ever could, and I have no doubt in my mind that he also understood that he was dying. He wasn’t naive to the facts. No, he understood exactly what was happening, but knew better than the rest of us that it couldn’t be helped.

My family was Henry’s entire world. We were a reprieve after years of abuse, starvation, and stress on the tracks. Coming to live with us, his loving and permanent forever-home, was his Heaven. And I can only hope that wherever he goes next, there’s a family even more attentive and affectionate than we were to receive him.

All dogs go to Heaven, because they love unconditionally. Because they find joy in the smallest things, and are loyal by design. They commit their lives wholly to a person, or a group of people, and expect nothing in return. Disguised as Man’s Best Friend, dogs were sent as our role models. I hope that one day I can love anyone as deeply and sincerely, without doubt or judgment, as my dog loved me.

I wasn’t there for the end, for which I feel both grateful and immensely guilty. But at the very least, I can know positively that my puppy left this world knowing that he was loved. Unconditionally. Without a doubt. Forever.