Reflections on Life with Honcho
Christy Doherty
50plus Magazine
When my birthday came and went this year I gave up trying to count the party-goers – although they were a quiet crowd.
They were snowflakes.
Born in February in Alaska, I’ve always felt blessed by birthday snowflakes — a hearkening back to the snowy day I arrived. True to form, I was late from the start.
Mom was overdue. Dad drove her to the hospital for check-in the night before; her OB would induce labor in the morning. They stopped at Dairy Queen on the way — Mom had been jonesing for a banana split. In 1957, military doctors were VERY rigid about weight gain for moms to be. Tipping the scales too heavy landed you in “the fat woman’s ward.”
At this point, Mom and Dad figured the calories were of little consequence. All around them feathery snow fell.
Her labor started in the wee hours. Doctors stood by with a blood transfusion as my parents had an RH blood factor. It was soon further complicated by the umbilical cord around my neck. But we made it!
Arriving home from the hospital, we were greeted by Honcho, their huge, faithful German Shepherd. Following doctors’ advice, they placed me on a blanket on the floor and let him bond with me from the start — making him a partner rather than an outsider.
Gently, quietly, Honcho sniffed at his tiny new human. Then he walked about three feet away, laid carefully down on his side, and wriggled over until his back was up against me. He sighed and closed his eyes for “our first nap.”
That day Honcho made an irrevocable decision: I belonged to him. My furry guardian set up base camp under my crib. There was thumping and bumping every time he squeezed underneath or exited for his frequent “cabin patrols.”
He also declared himself social coordinator.
Anyone coming by to see the new baby had to be escorted by Mom or Dad. Period.
Their close friend Bobbi thought that didn’t apply to her. Honcho met her in the hallway. When she tried to squeeze past him, he gently but firmly corrected her, taking hold of her wrist in his controlled but assertive jaws. When she tried to pull away and continue past, he took a firmer hold and shifted his gaze to make direct eye contact. Loosely translated: “None shall pass.”
“Annie Mae!!!” Bobbi called out. Once Mom was there, Honcho politely let Bobbi pass.
Honcho and Mom had a strong bond — cemented during her pregnancy (and ever after) by graham crackers with peanut butter. He never pressed her to share, only stared from a respectful distance, drool giving away his longing. He had peanut butter breath as often as Mom did.
I was barely crawling when Honcho’s health began to fail. While he had the heart of a lion, and would’ve defended us all against any threat, it was a tiny thing — mites — that began taking his life. Too quickly, Generalized Red Mange reduced the magnificent black and tan guardian to constant misery, scratching and chewing his now leathery skin bloody.
Late ‘50s-era medications did little to help, and it burned like fire. Treating the dog he loved so much with the painful chemicals (that ultimately failed) broke my Dad’s heart. Every hope exhausted, Honcho was laid to rest in the beautiful Alaskan forest.
Oh, Honcho. I’m sure you stepped into the afterlife and made yourself guardian over every infant passing into Heaven’s realm, thumping and bumping your way underneath cribs to sleep near your beloved wee ones.
May my birthday snow fall for you too, settling like lace upon your restored glossy, healthy, thick coat, a gift of remembrance for my beloved first best friend.
And even now, when it’s still and quiet, I gaze out at the forest and wonder what growing up alongside brave Honcho would’ve been like.
Christy writes from her home office, a few deer trails off the beaten path, writing about companion animals and extraordinarily kind people.