When you’re sad, there is nothing like having a basset hound to sit next to you. The basset’s somber countenance, his silky ears, his patient regard, his willingness to sit next to you for an indefinite period, which may just be inherent laziness but it doesn’t matter because for whatever the reason, you have someone to sit next to you while you grieve and that is really all that matters.

A basset hound isn’t trying to cheer you up, the way a border collie might. I say ‘border collie’ because we have one, and she’s a cheerful little git who wants you to be happy, dammit, and maybe throw her some ice cubes while you’re at it.

No, a basset hound will just sit with you and be sad with you. Won’t judge you, won’t minimize. He’ll just sit there in companionable silence.

Elmer Stocking Evans was just such a basset hound. Out of all the possible names we considered (“Stump” or “Squatch” were frontrunners), it was Abby who recognized the perfect, and really only choice. Once he got over adorkably tripping over his own ears, he developed into a juvenile delinquent: he ate our pool chlorinator (a $600 value!) and destroyed computer power cords while the computers were being used. He’s really lucky that he wasn’t electrocuted. Still fascinated by power, he tried his best to eat a nine volt battery; it was only through good fortune (and his human brothers’ vigilance and willingness to accept a metal detector for a birthday present) that we outwitted him. For almost a year he could only be in the house when he was immediately supervised, usually by being on a leash that was tethered to me.

He mellowed into a mature hound who greeted me every evening with a chorus of barking demanding a milk bone. He spent at least ten years of his life looking for the perfect nap, rousing from his spot on the couch only to immediately mosey to the patio where he’d commandeer a chaise lounge and lie in the sun. In later years he would clamber up to sit next to his Grandpa George, another old guy who liked to sit on the warm patio and ponder life. Unlike many of his fellow bassets, he would only howl if he was encouraged to do so. He wasn’t a drooler. He shed enough dog hair that I think we could knit a new dog, were we so inclined.

And we might just be so inclined. Elmer has wagged his final goodbye, after almost fourteen years of loving companionship and roughly five years of waking me up at 3 am every single night to go outside. He gave us fair notice: a few weeks of dramatically dwindling energy and a gradual but persistent declining interest in food, until Thursday afternoon, when I arrived home from work to silence and a polite refusal of Bennett Biscuit Company’s finest treats.

He left quietly Friday afternoon, surrounded by some of the people who loved him best, and to the assurances that we knew exactly who the good boy was. He leaves his loving parents, brothers and sisters, one very confused border collie, and a gigantic hole in our home.

Last night, I woke at 3 am, certain that I heard him announcing he needed to go out. It was just wishful thinking.

And now more than ever, I wish there was a basset hound to sit next to me.

© E. Stocking Evans 2019