In Loving Memory
Hannah
1987 - 2004
1 August 2004
To Whom it May Concern:
She wasn't even supposed to be my dog; she was supposed to belong to Patti and the girls. And she did, in a way. But on the first day she came to live with us, Patti and the girls had a previously scheduled trip planned to Disneyland. Their plans for a fun time in Anaheim had been made well in advance, and new puppy or not, they all wanted—and deserved—to go. Being a dog lover, I naturally volunteered to spend that first night with the round, furry little bundle that the Animal Control officers who found her had dubbed "Hannah." That way, Patti, Shelly and Sara could go on their much-anticipated trip, while the young, helpless puppy would have someone to stay with her.
Call it fate, perhaps, but something special happened between Hannah and me that afternoon and night—we bonded. I don't know precisely at which moment the bonding occurred, but by the next morning I knew that she'd chosen me as her "master." And she had sensed, no doubt, that my devotion to her would be permanent.
Over the years, Hannah gave all of us a great deal of pleasure. It was so much fun to play "toy" with her, or to hide somewhere in the house and wait for her to scurry about until she found us. It was a real laugh when she would try to "bury" her bowl of food with her nose, or when she would sit on her haunches and beg for a tummy rub (ignore her for too long and she would move her mouth as if she were trying to scold you into action!). And we were all proud when, under the patient and loving tutelage of young Sara, Hannah learned the small repertoire of tricks she would subsequently perform for us.
But the thing I will always cherish most about my Baby Hannah was her undying loyalty. It is not uncommon, of course, for dogs to demonstrate this quality; indeed, when it comes to being loyal, these noble animals have no equals among the creatures of this planet. But Hannah was a special case.
In the early Nineties, I had a routine by which my buddy Darren and I would go to Tijuana on Wednesday or Thursday nights to place our football bets for the upcoming weekend. I had my store at the time, and I would leave Hannah there while Darren and I went on our short trips to Mexico. And every single time I returned, regardless of how long it had taken us to get across the border and back, Hannah would be sitting in the store window—waiting, watching, anxious for me to return. She could've gone back to the office and found a much more comfortable spot to wait, but she chose—always—to keep her eyes glued to the door through which she last saw me pass.
That loyalty lasted until the very end, which is why it will be particularly difficult to deal with her passing.
I remember one day when she was about 10 or 11 years old. She was beginning to slow down some, although not a lot, and as I was walking her to Trolley Park we passed an elderly man who had a dog even smaller than Hannah. This dog was very old and moved almost painfully along. The old gentleman and I struck up a conversation and he told me it wouldn't be long before he would have to put his little friend down, the quality of the poor thing's life had diminished so. I saw the sorrow in his eyes as we talked, and thought gloomily ahead to one day when I might have to do the same with Hannah. Try as I may, I could never completely extinguish that thought from my mind.
Well, that dreaded day finally came on July 31st. Hannah had developed a number of ailments which, when taken in their aggregate, proved too debilitating for her to continue on. Like that of the old dog we'd passed on the street several years before, the quality of Hannah's life had finally diminished too. In the end, it was a lousy choice I was left with: either watch her condition slowly worsen, or say goodbye to my best friend. As much as I will surely miss her, I had to make the right decision for Hannah. So yesterday I did.
- mw
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