Hobbs

Way back in 2006, right before Christmas, I suggested to Rita that we might consider adopting a dog. We needed a little change in karma, and thought this might be just what we needed at the time. It was. After looking around at the local humane societies, we heard about an adoption day at a local pet store in South County. There he was in his own crate, yapping for attention from anyone within earshot. He was a small brown short legged mix, his short hair surprisingly soft when I picked him up. He went silent and docile in my arms, a trait he carried all of his life. Maybe he was just like a lot of us, and enjoyed being held. I asked about his background, and was told he was picked up on the run “down around Lonedell” (MO). His first given name was Bandit, was about six months old at the time, and had been returned from his first adoptive home because he didn’t get along with a cat that had seniority. On his first trip to the vet, we asked if they had an opinion as to his breed. His size and profile suggested Jack Russell Terrier, and his mottled tongue suggested a Chow or Shar Pei lineage. The vet’s assistant, walking by, took one look, and said he had a little “el diablo” in him. Indeed.

The kids were excited and surprised, and after a couple of days we decided to rename him Roy Hobbs. Other names considered: Yadi (Molina) and Crash (Davis from Bull Durham). Yes, we are a baseball family. Hobbs, as he came to be known, was an instant hit with the kids: A tour-de-force, with equal parts of relentless high energy, perpetual motion, stubbornness, nosiness, relentless jumping as a means of expression, barking, and a high distrust of any non-Johnson that came to our door. He could reduce a doggie toy stuffed animal to a limp carcass in about twenty minutes with its contents looking like a fresh snowfall. Most of the time, his bark was worse than his bite; but on a few occasions, as a few of the kids’ friends could attest, the opposite was true. Hobbs was obsessed with food, a result no doubt of his wandering days on the run.

He was a runner, and yes, more than a few times, got away from us off the leash. It was a worry because he was fearless, not very intuitive, and had no idea about the streets. He would disappear into the woods behind our house and beyond. It became a little easier to lure him back when he learned the meaning of the word “treat!”. Also, a big thank you to the nice young lady that was somehow able to lure him into her Jeep one afternoon before driving around our neighborhood. The Jeep pulled up next to me standing on the sidewalk leash in hand, and this little brown puppy face popped up with a smug self-assured look. “Hi, Dad, are you looking for me?”

Hobbs’ hyperactive life finally caught up to him this past year. His joints had eventually failed him; knee surgery didn’t quite do the trick and he had been pretty much bed ridden in recent months, barely able to stand on his own. Laine, if love alone could have healed him, he would have been fine. You have been his amazing loyal companion, and he loved and trusted you like no one else.

I couldn’t read his thoughts, but I just imagine that he had to be ready to move on. I hope there is a place in heaven for dogs so he can run again. Hobbs, you were not a perfect dog, but only perfect in your quirks and insecurities. Thanks, Hobbs, for your companionship, loyalty, and being the best dog that you knew how to be. Your mission is complete on this earth. Well done, old friend. Good boy, Hobbs! Good Boy!