Jo-Ann Mapson

Introducing Henry

"Animals are not brethren, they are not underlings, they are other nations caught with ourselves in the net of life and time." - Henry Beston

When we lost our Italian greyhound/miniature dachshund in May, I thought if I wrote about her, I might stop crying. Echo Louise, AKA Hecky, Copper Lou, Rulebook Louise, was one of those once-in-a-lifetime dogs-a lot like yours-brave despite her size, smart, gentle, and so beautiful she reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. When visitors announced that they did not like dogs, the Puppy Ambassador set to work, offering an outstretched paw and big brown eyes. "I like that little brown dog," they'd soon say, and then offer me money to take her home. "In your dreams," I'd answer. Echo was a big dreamer. She paddled her paws, whimpered, and she wagged her tail. Watching her dream was like seeing a preview of heaven.

During this last year, she mostly napped. A walk down the driveway was fraught with excitement. She'd survived two harrowing illnesses and we knew we were on borrowed time. But knowing and believing are worlds apart. When she died, the brute force of grief leveled me. After I'd used up a box of tissue I knew I had to pull myself out of the sorrow, so I decided to make a charm bracelet in her honor, one of those Italian jobs that are so popular now. I spelled out her name, added a gold bone, a paw print, an angel, a coffee cup (AKA Latte Louise), and a #1 dog charm that some thoughtless and cruel person continually tried to outbid me on Ebay. When I reach down and touch the bracelet, I remember the way she leapt through tall grass. How much she loved our son when he was a most unlovable teenager. The enormous reception she gave us when we simply came home.

Stewart and I decided no more dogs. We have Max, the Jack Russell terrorist who's been mad at the world since day one. And Verbena, the Papillon we suspect is part Chiapas Indian, and Cricket, the agoraphobic rat terrier. It was a logical decision, however only Echo was a lap sitter, and we missed her company. Not even The Christopher Lowell Show on HGTV seemed funny anymore. When I told my friend Jacqui Carr how lost I felt, she kindly invited me to visit her two Italian greyhounds anytime I needed a fix. I suppose if I were an engineer instead of a writer, such logic would be comfort.

Alas, I'm not an engineer, and neither is Stewart, which I'm glad about because I wouldn't know a radius from a tangent. So when Jacqui called to say her breeder had a new litter, we burned rubber to Homer to check them out. Eight hours later we were on our way home with the runt, Henry, named after Mr. Beston. Verbena strides around angrily switching her tail, Cricket stares in horror as Henry picks up her tennis ball, and Max, well, the Jack Russell worldview is if you can't kill something, you might want to try mating with it.

There are all kinds of stories in the world. Some people say the best ones are true, so how is it fiction can truly break your heart? Even a picture book offers narrative journey. They all share the adventure of a new beginning. Henry, at seven weeks, is the color of champagne gone flat. In his world, a toy can be a hundred-dollar pair of sandals, the edge of a canvas, and momentarily, the tail of a Jack Russell terrier. Outside, the air is perfumed with lilac. Stewart's in the garage building something, which I hope has to do with finishing remodeling the bathroom but likely does not. Henry lies in my lap, four pounds of warm fuzz. Echo's gone, but here in my heart forever. I'm overcome with bittersweet feelings and the tears roll down my face, and now I know it's possible to write a story using only five words: She was the best dog.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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