The Hankster

[Note: If you’re not a dog-lover, you may want to skip this post to prevent catastrophic amounts of eye rolling.]

As I mentioned earlier, not all elements of my adventure are going to be particularly exciting.  The good-byes will naturally be the most difficult part although I expect to see everyone in about six months, Lord-willing, when I come home for the holidays.  No doubt the time will fly by, too.

The anticipation of one good-bye has weighed on me more than the rest, though.  It’s not worse than separating from family and friends, but feels a little harder because I can't explain to him what I'm about to do or why I'm about to do it.  He's not excited for me at all.

From Hank’s perspective, my sole purpose in life is to love him – to play with him when I get home, to hug him close when he gets scared or hurt, to give him rides in the car, to feed and water him, to provide him with warmth and security, to give him a bully stick while I shower, and to scratch his belly when I wake up.  He has no understanding that tomorrow I will be dropping him off at a house in Indiana and that I won’t see him again for almost a year no matter how many times I try to explain it to him.  He can’t comprehend that his “mom” is following her dream.

Hank loves car rides!

Lest anyone think that Hank was not a factor in my plans, he was actually one of the reasons that I took so long to decide about going to culinary school, even when it was just the thought of taking night classes.  Not a day has passed since last June that I haven’t thought about the arrival of this day.  This concern was surprisingly widespread – probably three-fourths of the people whom I told about my plans asked about Hank almost right away, and I found it to be a rather touching gesture on his behalf.

Hank's first autumn

For a time I even considered taking Hank with me to Paris (they are quite pet-friendly), but some research revealed that the cost could be in the thousands.  Even if I had a few extra dollars to spare, pets have to go through some sort of quarantine period before and/or after entering and leaving the country, and I have plans to come home for about six weeks in November.  Then there are the horror stories that you read about dogs flying in the cargo sections of airplanes because he's a little too big to carry on, and many airlines no longer take dogs.  Add to that the fact that we'd be living in a shoe box and I'd be stuck at school for seven hours a day... and you can understand the dilemma. 

Believe it or not, there was a time when I would have gladly given up Hank.  Although I had grown up with dogs in our home, I had never had a pet while living on my own.  As an introvert who craves regular "alone time," the arrangement worked quite well, but after going through the emotional upheaval of my sister and brother-in-law hauling away all five of my nieces and nephews to Colorado in 2008, the thought struck me that a dog might bring me some comfort, or at least distraction.  My life felt pretty settled at that point and I figured that I could dedicate many years to a canine companion.

I sealed my fate when I visited the adult dog section of the Humane Society – those cages and cages of sad dogs who had also been separated from their families.  One little girl terrier caught my eye, but I wanted to sleep on the idea before making a decision.  By morning I already decided that her name would be Daphne (after Daphne du Maurier, one of my favorite authors).  When I returned to the Humane Society the next day she was gone.  That was when I met Hank.

Actually, his name was Wally (what a terrible name!) and his rap sheet said that he was seven months old and dropped off by his owners who couldn’t afford to keep him.  He had also made an appearance on the local news the night before when they were doing a segment on the increase in animals dropped off at the shelter for that very reason, so he was a bit of a celebrity.  He had been neutered recently and was a bit groggy and in pain, but he still made an effort to wag his tail and greet me.  His almost human-like soulful brown eyes and adorable little underbite stole my heart.  I signed the papers for him that night and the next day a friend and I picked him up.

That face...

That evening we labored over the perfect name once I got him back to the house (considering that “Daphne” was out). “Wally” had a little red collar with white flowers that reminded me of a bandana and he was immediately drawn to a stuffed cow toy, making me think of a cowboy, which in turn reminded me of Hank the Cowdog, a fictitious dog created by John R. Erickson not far from my mom’s childhood home in New Mexico.  “Hank” (a.k.a., "The Hankster," "Hanky," "Hanky-Pank," "Pest") seemed to fit just right.

My friend left and I suddenly felt in a pickle over what to do with this new little stranger in my house.  The post-op medication and pain having worn off, Hank turned out to be much more hyperactive and willful than I realized.  He was also extremely opposed to his crate.  I followed the training DVD instructions, researched online, threw in toys and treats, and even attended obedience school with him, but he would not sleep in his crate.

For eight months he would cry, bark, and gnaw on the crate door endlessly through the night and for eight months I got very little sleep.  On rare occasions I would wake up in the morning and realize that I had been able to sleep for several hours undisturbed.  I would sneak in to check on him, wondering if he had died in the night and worried only because I wasn’t sure about how I would dispose of his body.  Yes, people with babies deal with sleep deprivation all of the time, but uninterrupted sleep was supposed to be one of the perks of being single and childless.

Hank was also an escape artist, and if left unattended in the back yard for any period of time he would find the smallest fence opening and wriggle his way out.  During my searches I would secretly hope that he had been kidnapped.  We spent a lot of time just staring each other down.  Shame and pride were the only things that kept me from returning him to the Humane Society.

Our breakthrough finally came when I moved his crate into my bedroom one evening because I had visitors in the guest room.  I fully expected it to be more of the same hysteria, only louder, but he was completely silent all night long until early morning.  A few days later I left him out of his crate all night.  He jumped on my bed, curled up by my legs, and didn’t get up until I did the next morning.  The thought of a dog sleeping in a person’s bed had always disgusted me, but when you have gone eight months with little sleep, you’re willing to accept any solution.  It became our new pattern, and we finally bonded.

That bond is now the problem.  Hank has been a welcome constant companion for almost six years.  I dread the thought of going to bed without feeling his warm 19 pounds pressed against my legs or feet, or of waking up without him enthusiastically attacking my face because he refuses to leave the bed until I do.  I hate to think of walking in the front door and Hank’s face, holding and squeaking his stuffed ladybug, not being the first thing to greet me.  And as many times as I have told him how annoying he is, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to enjoy watching television or being on my laptop without Hank and his stupid tennis ball constantly vying for my attention.  I might even miss remaking my bed two or three times a day because of his burrowing tendencies.

One of Hank's masterpieces

Hank will be ecstatic when he realizes that he gets to go for a ride in the car all the way to Indiana.  Just seeing me packing sends him into hysteria.  He’ll run from window to window for about an hour into the drive until he finally settles down for a nap, never sensing my overwhelming guilt.  He will love his new home.  He will have enormous amounts of space in which to run and explore and an amazingly sweet and generous family who loves animals.  Hank adores people and will probably choose his one special human rather quickly.

The newness of his life will soon wear off and he’ll wonder for a time where I am and when I’m coming to get him, but that feeling will eventually fade as well, maybe faster than my vanity imagines, and he will be his usual, happy, hyper self.  He may, in fact, become so much a part of his new family that he stays with them forever because I don’t have the heart to uproot him again.

So rest assured, friends, that Hank will be just fine.  I'm not looking for sympathy either, because I'm not exactly being thrown into some terrible situation against my will.  Actually, I have turned this little 500-mile journey to Indiana into an epic 2600-mile road trip adventure with an awesome friend because I'm determined to enjoy myself. Of course, I have my spreadsheet itinerary along with a pile of snacks and more audio books than we can possibly finish.  This plan has created an emotional roller-coaster of excited anticipation and sad anxiety, but I believe that the "ups" will win out in the end.

This coming week, the last week of my “normal” life back home, will be the hardest one without my dog because he will be the most noticeably missing element.  After that, I will plunge into my new life and a time of missing my friends and family in addition to being occupied with simply surviving before achieving my "new normal."  At least that is my hope.

Until then, I leave you with one of my favorite Hank memories: