Back in December of 83 I brought home a black Labrador retriever from my brother-in-law, and from the moment his paws touched the ground I knew he wasn’t just another dog. I named him Hank. He had those big curious eyes and that eager bounce puppies get when they want to understand everything about the world. From the start he watched me like he was trying to read my thoughts, and before long he practically could.
I spent hours training him in the yard and down by the pond. He learned every hand signal so quickly it was like he’d been born knowing them. Hank lived to work with me. Some dogs hunt because you teach them to. Hank hunted because he loved it in his bones. He was the smartest dog I have ever seen and probably ever will.
If I headed out to the barn with an arm full of tools, Hank fell in right beside me like a faithful little partner. Whatever he could fit in his mouth, he carried. Didn’t matter if it was a wrench, a hammer, or a rag. He wanted to help, and he walked proud with his tail swinging. I always said he was the kind of dog who would’ve put on gloves and grabbed a toolbox if he’d had thumbs.
Back then I practiced archery at home, and any time I missed the target that arrow would disappear in the grass like it fell into another world. I’d call Hank and he knew the routine, and that nose of his went to work. He’d sweep the ground slow and steady, then stop and look back at me with that proud sparkle in his eyes. Sure enough he had my arrow. He never failed me, not once.
Dove hunting was the same story. Those soybean fields could hide anything, but Hank was always watching. Before the bird ever hit the dirt he already knew where it was. He cut through those rows with purpose, and he always came back with the dove gently held in his mouth, not a feather out of place.
Duck hunting brought out the best in him. If I shot a diver duck and it hit the water alive, it would dive trying to escape. Most dogs lose track at that moment. Not Hank. He understood the whole dance. He’d lock onto the ripple, dive under after it, stay underwater longer than seemed possible, then come up with the bird like he’d been doing it his whole life.
We spent so many mornings in the duck blind that Hank became more like a partner than a pet. If we weren’t paying much attention to the sky, I could see it in his eyes when ducks were coming our way long before I ever noticed. And if he happened to be relaxing, stretched out and calm, all I had to do was click the safety on my gun. That tiny sound flipped a switch in him. His whole body came alive and his eyes lifted to the heavens, locked in and ready for action.
Cold weather didn’t slow him down. It could be ten degrees, the wind cutting across a frozen field, and if we passed a pond Hank went straight in. He’d swim a full lap, come out dripping, and before long his black coat froze into tiny icicles. You’d think that would bother him, but he’d just shake himself off and stand there grinning like it was the best feeling in the world.
He loved fishing too. If I caught a bluegill or bass and tossed it back, Hank would leap in after it like he was trying to save the thing. Half the time he’d dive under and come up with the fish flopping in his mouth, looking at me like he wanted to say, “You dropped this.”
And he had another trick that showed just how sharp he was. I could throw a stick in the pond and tell him to go fetch. He’d swim straight toward it. When he got within a foot of that stick I could tell him to stop, and he’d freeze in the water. Then he’d swim lazy circles, watching me, waiting for the command. When I finally said the word he lunged forward and grabbed it, thrilled to do exactly what he was asked.
There was a day I’ll never forget. After a long evening in the dove field, Hank was in the back of my truck when I pulled out. I thought he’d settled down for the ride. About three miles down the road I realized he wasn’t there. My heart dropped. I turned around as fast as I could, and when I topped the hill I saw him. Hank was running full speed toward me on that gravel road, tongue hanging out and paws half bloody from the rocks. He must’ve fallen out and thought I was leaving him, but he was coming as hard as he could to get back to me. When he reached the truck he leaned into my leg, exhausted but relieved, and I’ll never forget that moment of pure loyalty.
Hank stayed with me for twelve good years. He went through seasons of my life right beside me. He knew my moods, my habits, my quiet moments, maybe even the things I never said out loud. If I needed comfort, he leaned against me. If I needed space, he still found a way to let me know I wasn’t alone.
And then one morning I walked out to the pen to let him out, same as always. The air felt still in that way that makes you pause without knowing why. When I opened the door to his pen, there he was, curled peacefully like he’d simply drifted off to sleep. No struggle. No fear. Just stillness. A gentle ending to a life that had given me nothing but devotion.
That moment broke something deep in me. You never really understand how much room a dog takes up in your heart until the day that space falls silent. I still catch myself glancing across the yard, half expecting to see him bounding toward me with that joyful run of his, tail swinging like it always did.
He wasn’t just a dog. Not even close. He was a partner. A friend. A steady presence who gave me the kind of loyalty people spend a lifetime wishing for. He’s the only dog I have ever bought a tombstone for, and even now, all these years later, I find myself thankful. Thankful for every mile we walked, every hunt, every moment by the pond, every small piece of everyday life that he turned into something I’ll never forget.
Some dogs pass through your life.
Hank stayed in my heart.