Hank & I

I haven’t been able to write a lot lately because I’ve put myself into a sort of self-perpetuated writer’s block. I feel that I would be writer’s blocked if I’d attempt to write, so I don’t attempt. Odd and foolish? Agreed. So, I’ve decided to write about Hank, my dog. He’s cute. I can’t write. Why not?

Hank is a year and a half. He’s a wickedly cute Welsh Terrier. Just look at that photo right above these words. That face, right? And I shit you not, he knows how to use that mug of his. The ladies love him, and he loves them. The thing about Hank is that he’s a loving little devil. He’s still a puppy, of course, and he also knows how to use that to his advantage.

You see, Hank’s mischievous. One of my favourite aspects about his vibrant if not slightly crazed personality. If you’re not paying attention to him when he wants you to pay attention to him (basically all the time, bar him sleeping), he’s sure to get your fleeting attention. Stealing shoes is one of his favourite methods. To eat them? Nope, to make a lot of noise trying to knock them off the shoe rack, grabbing a shoe and taking off like a drug-induced graffiti artist being chased by the cops. He will then stash the shoe under the bed and hope that he’s got your attention. If not, rinse and repeat, but maybe with toilet paper this time to shred into as many tiny pieces as possible and then onto the next one.

Hank, who is named after a pastiche of beloved Hank’s (famous or otherwise), is also the biggest cuddler of all time. Big spoon, little spoon, lap spoon, doesn’t matter. If he’s tired, mainly due to being a shoe bandit, respite is found in a little companionship. In case I’m being unclear here, he is wont to making the pillows on our bed his headrest too. It’s not an ego thing for him, it’s just a way of life. Quid pro quo, or something like that.

In the end, trying to write about a beast that you love unconditionally is tiring. That feeling of joy, laughter, and sheer oddness that comes from truly caring for your turkey-dog is inexplicable. It just is. I can’t explain it.

As he is currently asleep on the daybed behind me, I need to make my exit as I see that I’ve mindlessly left my boat shoes unprotected, naked, on the floor. I should go and elevate them. But, then again, that wouldn’t be any fun for him or I.

Thanks for reading. As a token of thanks, here are some more shots of the turkey-dog.