Heidi
She came into our lives over the Christmas holiday’s in 1987. My son John and I, having made prior arrangements, drove to the basset kennel, picked her up and brought her home. My wife, Lynne, was sitting in her chair reading when I asked her to close her eyes and took the book from her as John laid the squirming bundle of puppy in her lap.
Lynne was as ecstatic as the puppy. It was all over her, mostly with a warm wet tongue, but she finally settled down and moments later jumped down from Lynne’s lap where she promptly made a little wet mess on the carpet. No apology or contriteness here. She simply sat down, her large ears brushing the floor, and looked at Lynne with those soulful eyes as if to say, “I dare you to get mad at me.”
It took Lynne a week to come up with a name for her pedigree. Every purebred canine has to have at least three names, and she was no exception. But we both agreed she had to have something not as aloof as most of the champion show dogs of which this particular specimen certainly did not belong. It also had to be one that fit her looks and personality.
Her long droopy ears hung several inches below her muzzle framing a face with large, woefully sad, brown eyes that seemed always on the verge of tears. Her elongated body was supported by short, thick angular legs complete with knobby knees and saucer feet. When she’d run, she’d stumble over those long ears or large feet skidding to a stop on her muzzle and look back sheepishly as we’d laugh. She’d bark, as if to say, “Hey, I’m trying to be as dignified as possible. I’d like see how you guys would manage with ears and feet this large.” Had she been a human she’d have a scored a minus five out of ten in any pageant. Yet, for all of that, she conveyed dignity and an inner beauty far above her appearance. And so it was that ‘Heidi Noel Foots’ came to be a permanent member of our family.
No matter how morose one felt, one look at Heidi and whatever troubles one had seemed insignificant and even though she was sadness on four legs, she was a clown and energetic to a fault. However when she got tired she wouldn’t sniff and circle, like most dogs, before lying down. Instead she’d collapse with a thud, in any spot that appeared reasonably comfortable and, within seconds, be fast asleep..
Her favorite form of activity was going with my wife or I in our car. Heidi would sit in the rear seat leaning against the back, one paw on the armrest while looking out the window at the scenery or other cars. It was like being a chauffer to a dog! You can’t imagine how many double-takes we received as other drivers passed us. The occupants would be pointing at her, laughing and waving. Heidi, most often, would give them a disdainful look and resume watching the scenery. If we were parked, she would stay in the vehicle, move to the front seat, place one or both paws on the steering wheel, and survey the scene as though she were “Queen of the Parking Lot.”
We had a small get-together at our home one evening with a friend celebrating his birthday. During the piano accompaniment of the “Happy Birthday” song, Heidi sat nearby and joined in. The odd thing was she actually “sang” on key. It may have been an octave off, but I swear you could see her strain to find the right note. Oh, she wasn’t perfect, mind you. Often the notes would be drawn out too long or cut off too short, nevertheless she just knew she was making an improvement over our feeble attempts.
Of course it was impossible to keep a straight face and we all looked at her and laughed at her antics. With that, she promptly left the room to sit by the fire and sulk. From then on we’d have to coax her to join, but when she decided we’d pleaded enough, she would hop on a chair next to the piano, lay one paw on the arm, lean back, lift her head and take over the baritone portion of the song. We were dying inside, but no one dared laugh.
As a protector of the house she was woefully inadequate. She’d sooner fetch her sock to have a quick game of “tug-o-war” with a stranger rather than bark or growl like most normal dogs. A person could stick his hand in the open window of the car and, even if he didn’t have a treat for her, she’d lick it, hoping he had one concealed in his other hand.
We had thirteen years with this marvelous and loving animal. A slipped disk in her spine, common in bassets, eventually paralyzed her and it was a sad day indeed when we had to put to her sleep.
Heidi wasn’t special. She didn’t alert anyone to danger, didn’t drag a child from a burning building, and she was a complete failure as a watchdog. She was just Heidi, a fairly non-descript basset hound. But for all of that, she gave us unconditional love and devotion. I think she may have sensed the end for she weakly raised her head and licked both our hands as though to say goodbye. Then she went to sleep as she always did – quickly and with a large, contented sigh.
She came into our lives over the Christmas holiday’s in 1987. My son John and I, having made prior arrangements, drove to the basset kennel, picked her up and brought her home. My wife, Lynne, was sitting in her chair reading when I asked her to close her eyes and took the book from her as John laid the squirming bundle of puppy in her lap.
Lynne was as ecstatic as the puppy. It was all over her, mostly with a warm wet tongue, but she finally settled down and moments later jumped down from Lynne’s lap where she promptly made a little wet mess on the carpet. No apology or contriteness here. She simply sat down, her large ears brushing the floor, and looked at Lynne with those soulful eyes as if to say, “I dare you to get mad at me.”
It took Lynne a week to come up with a name for her pedigree. Every purebred canine has to have at least three names, and she was no exception. But we both agreed she had to have something not as aloof as most of the champion show dogs of which this particular specimen certainly did not belong. It also had to be one that fit her looks and personality.
Her long droopy ears hung several inches below her muzzle framing a face with large, woefully sad, brown eyes that seemed always on the verge of tears. Her elongated body was supported by short, thick angular legs complete with knobby knees and saucer feet. When she’d run, she’d stumble over those long ears or large feet skidding to a stop on her muzzle and look back sheepishly as we’d laugh. She’d bark, as if to say, “Hey, I’m trying to be as dignified as possible. I’d like see how you guys would manage with ears and feet this large.” Had she been a human she’d have a scored a minus five out of ten in any pageant. Yet, for all of that, she conveyed dignity and an inner beauty far above her appearance. And so it was that ‘Heidi Noel Foots’ came to be a permanent member of our family.
No matter how morose one felt, one look at Heidi and whatever troubles one had seemed insignificant and even though she was sadness on four legs, she was a clown and energetic to a fault. However when she got tired she wouldn’t sniff and circle, like most dogs, before lying down. Instead she’d collapse with a thud, in any spot that appeared reasonably comfortable and, within seconds, be fast asleep..
Her favorite form of activity was going with my wife or I in our car. Heidi would sit in the rear seat leaning against the back, one paw on the armrest while looking out the window at the scenery or other cars. It was like being a chauffer to a dog! You can’t imagine how many double-takes we received as other drivers passed us. The occupants would be pointing at her, laughing and waving. Heidi, most often, would give them a disdainful look and resume watching the scenery. If we were parked, she would stay in the vehicle, move to the front seat, place one or both paws on the steering wheel, and survey the scene as though she were “Queen of the Parking Lot.”
We had a small get-together at our home one evening with a friend celebrating his birthday. During the piano accompaniment of the “Happy Birthday” song, Heidi sat nearby and joined in. The odd thing was she actually “sang” on key. It may have been an octave off, but I swear you could see her strain to find the right note. Oh, she wasn’t perfect, mind you. Often the notes would be drawn out too long or cut off too short, nevertheless she just knew she was making an improvement over our feeble attempts.
Of course it was impossible to keep a straight face and we all looked at her and laughed at her antics. With that, she promptly left the room to sit by the fire and sulk. From then on we’d have to coax her to join, but when she decided we’d pleaded enough, she would hop on a chair next to the piano, lay one paw on the arm, lean back, lift her head and take over the baritone portion of the song. We were dying inside, but no one dared laugh.
As a protector of the house she was woefully inadequate. She’d sooner fetch her sock to have a quick game of “tug-o-war” with a stranger rather than bark or growl like most normal dogs. A person could stick his hand in the open window of the car and, even if he didn’t have a treat for her, she’d lick it, hoping he had one concealed in his other hand.
We had thirteen years with this marvelous and loving animal. A slipped disk in her spine, common in bassets, eventually paralyzed her and it was a sad day indeed when we had to put to her sleep.
Heidi wasn’t special. She didn’t alert anyone to danger, didn’t drag a child from a burning building, and she was a complete failure as a watchdog. She was just Heidi, a fairly non-descript basset hound. But for all of that, she gave us unconditional love and devotion. I think she may have sensed the end for she weakly raised her head and licked both our hands as though to say goodbye. Then she went to sleep as she always did – quickly and with a large, contented sigh.