Mar 31, 2016 4 min read

Readers sometimes knew him as Pablo and other times as Harry. But his name was Harry, and his antics landed on this page more than a few times over his eight years.

You know Harry – the exuberant Wheaten terrier that, in the middle of an important school meeting in his family’s living room, took a dive from the top stair and landed on the head of a school board member. Turns out she didn’t like dogs. But Harry certainly liked her.

In a column last year, I called him Pablo, to protect his privacy. He was chosen for a date with a female named Roxy. That first date didn’t go so well, a cause of some embarrassment and frustration seeing as “Pablo” was the only known non-neutered purebred male Wheaten in the area. He could have his pick of the ladies, he just wasn’t sure what to do about that.

Harry died last week, succumbing to an illness that left him unable to eat. At 8, he was just halfway through what should have been a longer life. Though shortened, the life was happy. Harry was number six in a household of five; when number seven, the grandmother, moved in, Harry became her constant companion during the day when the others were at work and school.

My own family has a special connection to Harry. He is the littermate of our own Howard and belonged to my friend Margaret. Both our families drove to Ohio the same day to select our puppies from a litter of eight. I wrote a column about how, on the way there, I instructed my kids to select “the fattest and slowest-moving puppy,” hoping for a calm adult dog. Margaret’s kids selected a “smaller, peppy one with more personality.”

So much for that plan, I told Margaret the morning after the head-jumping incident.

Sometimes, Margaret and her family would bring Harry over to our house, and the fluffy brothers would romp in the backyard. Did they know they were related? Maybe they could smell it.

The news of Harry’s death came last Friday, in a text from Margaret. Harry had been doing OK since his diagnosis, but then came a rapid decline. That afternoon, he lay down and took a deep final breath. Margaret and her family are grateful he died peacefully at home, and they didn’t have to take Harry on a last, sad ride.

Margaret came by my house last night, bringing the puppy snacks Harry couldn’t enjoy at the end. Howard greeted her at the door, nuzzling her all over.

“He smells Harry,” I said.

She sat on the kitchen floor, with Howard in her lap, petting him. It must have been heaven for Howard. For Margaret, it must have been a little like having Harry back again.

“He smells like Harry,” she said, her face in his curly head.

It was a sweet moment, one that made me grateful to still have Howard who, through some luck of the draw, has not shown signs of the disease that took his brother.

Before she left, Margaret showed me a photo of another family’s Wheaten puppy. Turns out that, despite his failed first try at courting, Harry rose to the occasion on the second date. That puppy, a male, is Harry’s son. Even in the small photo, you could see the ornery twinkle in his eye.

Ah, that Harry was really something: father, brother, instigator, playmate, companion, family member. If he really liked you, he would leap right onto your head.

Ah, Harry.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.