This was Griffin having a good shake. He was a pure-bred Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen, a medium-size shaggy scent hound originally tasked to hunt rabbits over rough terrain. Petits (or PBGVs) were never pack hunters, not like Beagles or Harriers. They were usually hunted individually or in a small pack of two or three.
I got him as a pup and he grew up to be my huggy bear. He was the smelliest, noisiest, funniest clown of a hound ever put on earth. He would do anything to make you laugh. The harder you laughed, the sillier he behaved. He liked to snuggle, but he wasn’t a needy dog. He would drop by for a hug and a treat, then he’d be off about his business.
He was always busy, but he was always good-natured. I never knew him to snarl, growl or be even a little unpleasant to any person. As official leader of the pack, he sometimes let another dog know she was out of line, but all he needed to was make a little soft growly noise deep in his throat. That was enough.
No super Alpha he. Nope, if Griffin were human, he’d have been the kind of guy who was so popular, he never needed to prove anything. He’d have loved sports and drunk a lot of beer.
About a year before he died, he suddenly wanted to be near me all the time. I knew something was very wrong with him. He got so old so fast, but there was nothing obvious … but I knew. We always know, don’t we?
Tinker died first, of cancer. About a month later, Griffin had a massive seizure and died. We never knew what was wrong with him. There will never be another like him. Half clown, all hound. Smart and funny and cute in a big, hairy way. I miss him very much.
- Dogs of Morning (teepee12.com)
- Love at a Price: The Life and Times of Tinker Belle. (teepee12.com)