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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
“Why now?” I was asked. It is a fair question. After all, I am transitioning into retirement, seeking more freedom, less stress, and no daily commute with maybe just a sprinkling of consulting to stave off cognitive stagnation.
Why indeed – I wonder, would I tether myself to Henry, our mini Goldendoodle puppy?
If I am honest with myself, it surely has everything do with grief. I have a loving husband and loving sons and loving grandchildren. But I found myself with love to spare. Leftover love for a fun-loving, life-loving son who left me too soon at the age of 29.
The search for Henry began with family meetings months ago. My grandchildren had hatched butterflies and birds, but I wanted them to join me in the journey of nurturing a well-trained dog. Besides my husband wanted my sons onside to double as dog sitters during our travels. My eldest son and my daughter-in-law wanted us to find a smaller dog, child-friendly and hypoallergenic. My middle son wanted a cat friendly dog. I wanted a smart animal. My first childhood dog was an intelligent cockapoo who was killed by a gravel truck. My heart was broken. Sadly, I could not attach myself to the next childhood dog, a timid spaniel with sorrowful eyes who failed obedience training. She became my mother’s pet.
Goldendoodles fit the bill for everyone. Smart. Curious. Playful. Child friendly. Cat friendly. Hypoallergenic. And they come in a mini size, too. Our extensive research culminated in a smaller “guardian home” breeder a two-hour drive away, which featured a photo of a Goldendoodle adorably posed in a large egg cup. That sealed the deal, it was love at first sight.
Next came the naming game. Butterscotch, Fizzle, Frodo, Nemo and Sunny were ideas from my son. Toby and Brady from my sister-in-law. My grandchildren suggest Henry and Hammy. My eldest granddaughter advised us to wait until we met the dog before naming him. But practicalities dictated that we name him in advance as he embarked on a six-week puppy boot camp arranged by the breeder. Reluctant to choose, I delegated the decision to the breeder – does he look more like a Hammy or a Henry, you decide!
So that’s how Henry came into my life, but not why. Henry serves a higher purpose.
Partly I need a friend. After all, I lived a nomadic existence for my first half-century, which did not permit roots and lifelong best friends. James Taylor could have been singing about Henry when he croons, “You just call out my name … and I’ll come running … all you’ve got to do is call and I’ll be there … you’ve got a friend.”
Partly it’s my restless spirit and love of walks – especially in the early mornings when it’s still dark and I can ponder and plan. It’s a sacred time for me and I don’t like to share my solitude with other humans, especially my husband, who uses an app to track our steps, pace and time for “data collection.” The goal of “data collection” conflicts with my goal of reflection. But I knew Henry would be the perfect walking companion: His low-tech collection of data involves grass-sniffing and leaf-eating.
Henry commands me to be in the moment. He reminds me of when I was a young parent decades ago. I am now well trained to respond to a squeaking lamb toy or the tinkling of the bells that hang from the door. Henry is an opportunist who has quickly learned that ringing those bells commands me to go for a walk or a romp in the snow. A few accidents on our exotic rugs have quickly taught me to anticipate his calls of nature. I obey the call to play frisbee half a dozen times a day. On our walks, Henry forces me to “stop and smell the roses.” Or whatever.
But mostly Henry helps me heal. My youngest son died unexpectedly seven years ago. I didn’t know how I would survive. I was most assuredly certain that my love for him would never die but how to cope with this broken, aching, yearning heart? I took solace in a quote I’ve read online, attributed to Jamie Anderson: “Grief is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot … Grief is just love with no place to go.”
Nothing – let alone vibrant little Henry – will ever mend my broken heart. But when that tail wags at warp speed, when that gooey tongue tickles my face, when he sits so perfectly “in place” on his cot tilting his head as if he understands my banter – I feel Henry is growing joy around that gaping hole in my chest. Henry is becoming the adorable repository I was seeking to soak up my leftover love.
Judy Fantham lives in Markham, with Henry.