In the corner of our lounge, his bed remains untouched. His playing gadgets are still scattered haphazardly across the room. Occasionally, when we accidentally step on one, it lets out a squeak, stirring memories of the wonderful joy he brought to our lives and the profound silence that has settled since his absence. We haven’t been able to clear away his things despite six weeks transpire since his departure. Undeniably, grieving for Humphrey lasts longer than expected; my love for him surpasses any affection I’ve felt for a creature.
The most trivial things might trigger a torrent of tears. Hair shedding was an essential trait of Basset hounds like Humphrey. But whenever I vacuum now, the accumulating amount of hair decreases each time; it feels as though every single evidence of his existence is gradually fading. Uncannily, I am still finding strands of his hair on my attire. In the midst of an official meeting, I’d spot a hair on my sleeve or trouser leg and grief washes over me anew.
A poignant account exists in James Lever’s ‘Me Cheeta’, the witty yet tear-jerking “autobiography” of Tarzan’s chimpanzee, describing the shattering of cross-species friendships. Reflecting on his erstwhile co-star and mate, Johnny Weissmuller, he ponders whether his absence is felt as a beloved but playful pet.
My relationship with Humphrey resonates similarly. He felt like my jesting sidekick, with me playing the unfazed partner. Once during a visit to Stephen’s Green, he stealthily helped himself to a gentleman’s sandwich without ceasing his walk, compelling me to extend an apology. There was another instance when he was tethered to a bench outside the Avoca post office. Resolute about moving, he set off, pulling the bench along like an Arctic Husky, until it splintered into several pieces.
Humphrey, the obstinate and rebellious basset hound, was well known for defying orders in ways only other basset owners can appreciate. I can honestly admit that throughout our years together, he never followed a single instruction I gave, unless it conveniently lined up with his own intentions.
An average day included an incident where I was attempting to convince him to enter the vehicle, following a stroll on Dún Laoghaire pier, except Humphrey had other plans. Employing my usual method of persuasion, I beseeched him by saying, “Humphrey, kindly get in the car. I implore you. Humphrey, please stop this. I really can’t handle this today.” However, nearby, a couple along with their golden Labrador bore witness to our exchange, looking at me in bewilderment.
Humphrey’s general stance was that I took life too seriously and should lighten up a bit. On occasion he could drive me to the brink of despair, but the affection he reciprocated far outweighed any frustration. Leaving him alone for a brief moment resulted in reunion celebrations as though you’d been absent for weeks. Conspicuously intuitive, he could detect sorrow and would drape himself across your legs or torso as a silent reassurance of his presence.
As time went by, we fell into a routine that complemented each other, aligning our internal rhythms. We rose at dawn every day, and a minute past five would trigger Humphrey’s low whimpering, enough to stir me from sleep. We savoured a few early morning moments of mutual greetings and he cocked an ear for familiar human vocabulary from his limited linguistic understanding, which was mostly centred around “chicken”.
I prepared our morning meal, then allowed Humphrey to relieve himself before he embarked on his daily routine – enjoying his first snooze for the day, whilst I got on with work. His preferred sleeping spots were either the threshold of the door or snug against the leg of my work chair, fuelled by his phobia of missing a trip to the refrigerator for a snack whilst he slept. Should he wake up to the scent of food on my breath, his expression of sheer disappointment forced me to avert my gaze.
Around 11 in the morning, Humphrey would rise to keenly anticipate the postman’s arrival, perched at the end of the corridor, eyeing the mail slot as if he were a polar bear staring at a fox’s den. The letters slipping through the door sparked off a charge, paired with frenzied barks. After a friendly greeting from the postman through the door, calm would follow.
He would then dedicate the following couple of hours to convey, with huffs, moans and grunts, that it was time for lunch, despite being well aware that it wasn’t. One o’ clock marked lunchtime. He wolfed down his in no time, then sat watching me while I ate mine, fixedly hoping for a piece of bread crust from my plate. Even as the last bite was in my mouth, he held onto the hope of getting it until it was distinctly swallowed.
Our walks, which weren’t about physical exercise, followed. With Basset hounds being driven by their noses, walking them tends to be a stuttered endeavour, often leading to agitation until it nurtures patience in you.
The afternoon saw a return to work for me, while Humphrey resumed his nap, occasionally waking up to bring toys to my desk in an attempt to coax me into playing. Most times, his persistence paid off, but on days when work deadlines prevailed, ignoring him was the only option. On such days, finishing work to see a mound of his toys by the desk was a heart-rending sight. Sadly, they were never his favourite toys, instead ones he thought I preferred.
My heart mourns the departure of my beloved Humphrey, reminiscing about all the endearing nuances of our daily life. I recall the satisfaction he found in our shared dinners, his keen eyes traced the chicken or the Christmas turkey being roasted, as eager as I was during my first rendezvous with binge-watching The Sopranos.
His persistence to secure the much-coveted spot on our sofa would often result in me sitting dispiritedly on the hard floor. A firm ‘no’ would merely translate into a brief pause for our dear basset hound before he attempted to claim his space again. The sight of him sprawled out on the couch, snoozing with his ear in his mouth while waiting for my wife, was a spectacle that brought comfort to our home.
Our schedules carried the reassuring markers of our lifestyle with Humphrey. Despite it now being devoid of the need to hurry back home to a furry friend, our lives seem brutally uncluttered now. Knowing that our return home shall elicit no joyful wagging of Humphrey’s extended frame dampens the joy of freedom.
As we grapple with his void, deliberating getting another pet petrifies us. The prospect of a new dog failing to match up to Humphrey’s persona and not feeling the same affection towards him paralyzes us. While time may change our stance, the expectancy of feeling the comforting presence of Humphrey at my heels continues to cast a shadow on our decision.
Humphrey’s companionship for 13 and a half years bears testament to the beauty of domesticating dogs. He ignited the realization of the cycle of joy and sorrow associated with a dog lover’s life – the rarity in their longevity in our lives. His absence is stark, making every goodbye premature, leaving me to contemplate if he’ll forever be the only dog I’ll share my life with. The jests from my dear goofy companion are missed, every taunt being an expression of his affection for me.