Thelma

There are two kinds of people in the world, those who’ve had basset hounds and those who haven’t.  The second group has no ideas what it’s missing.

I probably first saw—and then wanted—a basset after seeing Elvis Presley perform “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” on TV.  My first basset, Willie, actually belonged to a neighbor across the alley from us in our first home, before Clare was born.  Willie got out of his yard one day and made it to the end of the block when I happened to see him.  So, I called after him, and true basset hound that he was, he came running at me.  That was a mistake on my part.

As Willie closed in on his target, I realized how much he looked like a torpedo mounted on short legs.  Somehow, I survived the hit and came away with an appreciation for the attributes of the breed.  Think of them as canine bumble bees, defying their physical limitations to accomplish the impossible.  Bassets can’t fly, but they’re sneaky fast like Willie and capable of jumping onto just about any piece of furniture.  They are also very good at training humans.

Our dog was intelligent, stubborn and loving.  She figured out on her own that the timer going off in the kitchen meant food was ready, and she barked at Michele to make sure nothing got burned; she would also run into the living room to get me when dinner was on the table.  After dinner, she would bark at me to chase her (all three of our bassets have loved to be chased, one preferably with a broom), or she pushed her bed from the living room into the dining room to keep an eye on me if I decided to read at the kitchen table.  But God forbid if I wanted to give her a bath.  She hated that more than the devil does holy water, as my father would say.

Neither fireworks nor thunder ever bothered Thelma; she valued her sleep too much to be roused by an M-80 or thunderclap.  About the only thing she couldn’t handle was softball.  The instant she saw Clare put on her uniform, Thelma would get upset because she knew her humans were about to abandon her.

There was this one time in travel ball when we left the house at five in the morning because you had to be at the field an hour before game time, and the field that day was in far-off Kankakee.  Think Bataan Death March to get an idea of that Saturday in June of 2008.  We didn’t get back until one in the morning the following day.  We had no idea what to expect.

The kitchen and dining room were fine, but the living room bore signs of, well, a statement.  Thelma had knocked down a picture of Clare in uniform, and chewed it up.  You don’t mess with a basset hound, but you do miss them—terribly—once they’re gone.  I know I do.