Hank Peed on My Back

And I never got over it. For years, whenever someone mentioned my sister's dog's name, I'd say, "Hank peed on my back." Of course, everyone already knew that, but it was a summary of my views on Hank. Once in a great while, someone might be around who didn't know the story, and then the statement drew a reaction, but that wasn't my intention. It was just what I had to say about Hank.

Hank was allegedly a miniature poodle, but he was longer and lower to the ground than any poodle I ever knew. I suspect that his bloodlines weren't pure, and that somewhere up the line there was an errant dachsund. He was quite possibly the friendliest dog who ever lived, and no matter WHAT was going on, he'd greet you excitedly, wagging his tail, rubbing all over you, delighted to share the moment with you.

The night he peed on my back, my daughter was just a few weeks old. I was severely sleep deprived, of course. I was changing the baby on my bed when Hank suddenly hopped up onto the bed, walked around behind me, hiked his leg and peed on my back.

He wasn't a puppy.

It wasn't an accident.

He jumped up on the bed, peed on my back, and jumped down again.

My nightgown clung unpleasantly to my back and there was nothing I could do about it, since I had to stay where I was and finish changing my daughter and get her safely back into her crib or carrier before I could get up and change--let alone shower. And showering was heavy on my mind at that moment.

My relationship with Hank was largely defined in that moment, but he was so damned friendly and optimistic that he never really seemed to notice, and he was so damned friendly and optimistic that I didn't really WANT him to notice. When he came running to greet me, I usually said, "Hi, Hank. Go away." But I said it PLEASANTLY and he wagged his tail and wiggled all over my legs. I sighed sometimes, but I never told him to go away in a voice he might understand.