Henry’s Ascension
By Nancy Harrison
Henry, the noble mutt who never knew a day of luxury but lived a lifetime of love, has been summoned to the great dog park in the sky. After sixteen years of unwavering loyalty, countless walks, and far too many stolen socks, he’s finally hanging up his leash.
His human dad, Jesse—determined to be by Henry’s side for the grand farewell—is flying up from Fort Myers to Atlanta today. Tonight, they’ll share one last evening together, though it’ll be thick with memories, tissues, and the kind of sniffles that come from both grief and sixteen years’ worth of dog hair that never quite leaves your sinuses.
Despite our special bond—and believe me, Henry and I were tight—I, the human grandmother, wasn’t on the guest list for the Ascension Ceremony, scheduled for 3:30 pm. Henry and I were like peanut butter and jelly. Or in Henry’s case, like peanut butter and anything. That dog had a PhD in Peanut Butter Acquisition and would easily lick it from his Kong if given an opportunity.
He had an uncanny talent for finding me no matter where I was, and a magical ability to warm my lap at precisely the moment my heart was broken from whatever fresh hell life had thrown my way. When my second husband decided to “explore other horizons” (a phrase that still makes me want to throw something), Henry was there—all warm fur and soulful eyes, slowing my racing heart with every cuddle, every gentle paw on my knee, every look that said, “I know. I’m here. And also, do you have snacks?”
For that, I owe him more than just belly rubs. I owe him everything.
Henry has a little brother named Paul, who, unlike me, has secured a front-row seat to the solemn affair. Paul, ever the opportunist, probably doesn’t realize yet that this means more snacks for him. But today is serious business.
Henry’s last supper was as indulgent as you’d expect—ice cream and chocolate. (Yes, yes, we know chocolate’s bad for dogs, but this was a special occasion, and honestly, after sixteen years of being a very good boy, Henry had earned the right to break a few rules.) Paul will be there, paws at attention, as Henry is carried from the room, tail first.
The grief counselor vet assured us this would help Paul adjust, though I suspect Paul will still be looking for Henry under the bed for weeks to come, probably wondering if his brother is just playing the world’s longest, least fun game of hide-and-seek.
Paul and Henry were quite the pair—five years of companionship that included the highs of late-night snuggles and the lows of barking at every single delivery guy and garbage truck that passed by. While Henry was the wise old sage, moving through life with the deliberation of a dog who’d seen it all, Paul was the resident party animal, always ready to yap at a moment’s notice, bounce off the walls, and generally make chaos look adorable.
Sure, their relationship had its challenges—Paul’s surgeries, Henry’s patience wearing thin, the occasional territorial dispute over who got the sunny spot on the couch—but they made it work.
Now, with Henry gone, Paul will find his way, probably napping in Henry’s favorite spot and trying to fill the silence with his own peculiar brand of chatter. Maybe he’ll even learn to steal socks with the same artistry Henry perfected. A dog can dream.
And then there was Lyn.
Oh, Lyn. My daughter, Henry’s mom, the woman who loved that dog with a fierceness that could move mountains. Right up until the very end, she wrestled with it. “Are we doing the right thing? Is it time? Maybe he has another good day in him. Maybe two. Maybe he just needs more ice cream.”
Because that’s the thing nobody tells you about loving a dog this much: There’s never a “right” time. There’s only the time when love has to be bigger than the wish to hold on just one more day. When you have to let them go gently instead of watching them suffer. When you have to be the grown-up, even though every cell in your body is screaming, “Not yet. Please, not yet.”
But Lyn knew. Jesse knew. Even I knew, sitting at home not on the guest list but connected by sixteen years of love. Henry had given everything he had. And now it was time to give him peace.
We miss you, Henry. You were a good boy—no, you were the best boy. Rest easy now, and know that Paul will do his best to honor your legacy, one stolen sock at a time.
About the Author
Nancy Worley Harrison is a senior, new wife, mom, writer living in Stone Mountain, Georgia.
Worleywords@gmail.com
© Nancy Worley Harrison
