25-15 Henry

lost my wife twelve years ago to metastatic breast cancer. After living alone for so long, I didn’t realize how much I needed Henry until he came into my life.

For years, I’d thought about adopting a golden retriever but always hesitated. With encouragement from my two daughters, I finally filled out an application with GRRIN. As I looked through the list of available dogs, Henry’s picture immediately caught my eye. My heart sank when I learned he was part of a bonded pair with another dog, Ellie — two dogs felt like more than I could handle.

Then came the call from Tory. She told me the sad news that Ellie had passed away and asked if I might be interested in adopting Henry. My heart leapt, but I tried to stay calm. I knew Henry would be grieving — after all, he’d lost his original owner, then Ellie, and soon his foster companion too. Still, I thought, maybe we could grieve together.

When I met Henry and his foster family, my anticipation grew. The home visit went beautifully. When they told me it was time to decide, it was one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made. The next day, I drove to Council Bluffs to bring Henry home — and I haven’t looked back since.

Every morning, Henry and I start our day with coffee on the couch. He’s never far from me; if he’s not right beside me, he’s lying in a doorway, making sure I don’t go anywhere without him. Being retired, we spend nearly every moment together.

One of my joys is restoring an old Plymouth coupe that my mother bought brand new in 1935. Henry keeps me company in the garage, sleeping contentedly while I work. When we take the coupe for a spin around the neighborhood, he insists on riding along. People wave as we pass, and when they spot Henry — big as life in the passenger seat — they can’t help but smile. He’s quite the local celebrity.

Henry has his own gentle way of communicating. When he wants attention, he’ll nudge my arm and lift his paw. I’ll hold it, ruffle his ears, and scratch his neck until he’s satisfied — or until he reminds me I’m not done yet. Unlike my past dogs, Henry never barks to go out or come in; he simply waits patiently by the door.

He loves squirrels, and as soon as I let him outside, he bounds from tree to tree as they scurry to safety. If he’s in the unfenced front yard and I call him, he trots right back — such a good boy.

At my grandson’s soccer game recently, Henry lay quietly at my feet while other dogs barked and strained at their leashes. Kids kept coming over to ask, “Can we pet your dog?” and, of course, I said yes. They’d smile, stroke his fur, and say, “He’s so beautiful.”

Caring for Henry has been a gift. Before him, I could come and go as I pleased — no schedule, no structure. Now, I have someone who depends on me, who gives my days rhythm and purpose. His needs — physical, emotional, and otherwise — have gently pulled me out of myself. That responsibility has been healing.

Henry doesn’t just fill the empty spaces in my home — he brightens them. His calm presence brings peace. When a project gets frustrating, one look into his soulful eyes or a good ear scratch is all I need to reset.

He makes me laugh, too. If I walk from the garage to the back door, he watches me with suspicion, as if I might sneak off without him. When I step inside, he’s instantly at the glass door, nose pressed against it, ready to rejoin me.

Through Henry, I’ve found companionship, comfort, and even a bit of myself again. I thought I was adopting a dog — but really, Henry rescued me.