I’ve been thinking about dogs lately.
One dog in particular. My Doberman, Habu.
For nearly ten years, Habu was part of our family. A big Doberman with an even bigger personality, a sense of humor all his own, and a way of making his presence known whether you wanted him to or not.
If you’ve ever owned a Doberman, you know they’re a little different. They’re intelligent, loyal, protective, affectionate, and sometimes convinced they’re lap dogs despite all the evidence to the contrary.
But Habu wasn’t exactly your typical Doberman.
For starters, he was a gentle soul, especially around children. He loved people, enjoyed meeting strangers, and was perfectly happy making new friends, whether they had two legs or four.
He enjoyed going to the farmers market. All those people, smells, and opportunities to socialize. I’m pretty sure he thought everyone had come just to see him.
And he had a sense of humor.
I know that sounds strange to say about a dog, but Habu was a jokester. He had this way of looking at you, or doing something just slightly ridiculous, that made you wonder what was going on inside that head of his.
There were plenty of times when I swear you could almost see a little speech bubble floating above him.
And believe me, some of the things in that imaginary speech bubble probably weren’t suitable for polite company.
He was a character.
But Habu wasn’t just a dog who hung around the house. We had adventures together. Quite a few, actually.
There were the United Doberman Club national competitions, where, looking back, we probably had absolutely no business competing at that level. But we showed up anyway.
We might not have been the most polished team there, but we were a team, and we gave it a shot. Sometimes just showing up and seeing what happens is half the adventure.
Then there were several years spent training in search and rescue as a human remains detection K9 team. That was a different kind of adventure. It required patience, discipline, trust, and a whole lot of time working together.
There’s something remarkable about working with a dog in that capacity. You learn to read each other, communicate without words, and trust instincts that don’t always make sense to the other end of the leash.
And then there were the simpler adventures.
Road trips.
Habu was my traveling buddy. It didn’t particularly matter where we were going. If I was heading out and he got to come along, life was good.
Some of my favorite memories aren’t from competitions or training exercises. They’re just the two of us going somewhere together.
Somewhere along the way, Habu also became a bit of a therapy dog for me. Not in any official capacity, but in the way dogs seem to know when you need a little companionship, a distraction, or simply someone to sit beside you without asking questions.
Of course, that arrangement worked both ways.
When thunderstorms rolled through, suddenly my big, brave Doberman needed a therapy human.
That would be me.
Apparently, we each had our strengths. He could spend years training to find human remains, but a good Missouri thunderstorm was an entirely different matter.
I suppose that’s what made us a pretty good team.
As Habu approached his tenth birthday, I knew he was getting older. That’s the unfortunate reality of sharing your life with a dog. Their time with us is never quite long enough.
But knowing that doesn’t make you any more prepared for the day you have to say goodbye.
On Monday evening, that day came unexpectedly.
We were faced with one of those decisions every pet owner dreads, and we made the heartbreaking choice to let Habu go peacefully.
Nearly ten years of companionship, adventures, laughter, and memories suddenly became just that. Memories.
I’ve thought a lot about the timing.
We had just returned from a weekend away. As strange as it may sound, I’m grateful this didn’t happen while we were gone. Part of me likes to think Habu waited until we were home.
I know that’s probably giving a dog credit for something he couldn’t possibly have planned.
But then again, anyone who has loved a dog knows that logic doesn’t always have much to do with the relationship.
Maybe he waited for us. Maybe it was simply coincidence.
I think I’ll choose to believe he waited.
The funny thing about losing a dog is that you don’t just miss the big things.
You miss the everyday things.
The sounds they make. Their routines. The way they follow you around. The way they somehow always know when you’re eating something worth investigating.
You miss the personality.
Those looks that seem to say a thousand words. The goofy behavior. The little jokes that somehow only the two of you understand.
You miss your traveling companion, your training partner, and even the big tough dog who suddenly needs reassurance when thunder starts rumbling in the distance.
Even the things that occasionally drove you crazy become things you’d give anything to experience one more time.
For nearly ten years, Habu didn’t care what kind of day I’d had, what was happening in the world, or whether I’d accomplished anything particularly important.
He was just happy I was there.
There’s something pretty remarkable about that kind of unconditional loyalty.
Dogs don’t measure our success. They don’t care about our bank accounts, our accomplishments, or our opinions.
They just want to be part of our lives.
And somehow, without ever saying a word, they become a bigger part of those lives than we realize.
I’ve been thinking about the responsibility we take on when we bring an animal into our home.
We promise to feed them, protect them, care for them, and give them a good life.
But there’s another promise we make, even if we don’t think about it at the time.
Someday, when they need us most, we’ll have to put their comfort ahead of our desire to keep them.
That’s the part of loving a dog that nobody looks forward to.
And perhaps it’s the greatest act of love we can give them.
Habu gave me nearly ten years of loyalty, companionship, adventures, entertainment, and probably a few headaches along the way.
We competed together, trained together, traveled together, and occasionally provided each other with a little emotional support.
He made friends wherever he went, loved being around people, and never seemed particularly concerned about living up to anyone’s expectations of what a Doberman was supposed to be.
He was simply Habu.
And that was more than enough.
The house is a little quieter now.
There’s an empty space where a big Doberman with an even bigger personality used to be.
And while I know that eventually the sadness will give way to more smiles than tears, right now I simply miss my dog.
Laurie and I will miss him terribly, and I think it’s safe to say that everyone who ever had the opportunity to meet Habu will miss him too. He just had that kind of personality. He made friends wherever he went and left an impression on the people he met.
So here’s to Habu.
Thanks for the adventures, the companionship, the loyalty, the laughs, and even the occasional mess.
You were a good dog.
And you were loved.
I’ve been thinking…
Maybe the reason saying goodbye to a dog hurts so much is that, for a little while, we get to experience a kind of love that asks for almost nothing and gives us nearly everything.
Rest easy, Habu.
You earned it.
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