by Dana Perino
“Doctor, we’re okay. We’re ready,” I said.
I led Peter out of the unit and into the private room where the vet explained he would bring Henry in and administer the shot. Those moments were unbearable. Through tears I e-mailed my mom and my sister, who were in shock in Denver. They didn’t know Henry was so ill.
My grief was compounded by watching Peter. My husband was collapsing inside. His face was nearly unrecognizable, and I never want to see that again.
A few moments later the doctor came in, but Henry wasn’t with him.
“As soon as you left the room, Henry passed away. It’s as if he was waiting for your permission to go,” the doctor said.
We sobbed.
Oh, Henry. I believe he stayed alive long enough for us to say good-bye.
What a gentleman… No, what a dog.
We slowly walked back to the apartment. It was a really cold day. As we approached the building, the doorman and building staff were there, expecting news on Henry. All we could do was shrug and look up, our faces wet with tears.
“Oh no. We’re so sorry, you guys,” the doorman said, and a couple of the building staff started crying with us.
We thanked them and went up the dreaded forty-six floors to the apartment.
When the door shut, our grief took hold. I’m talking full-on meltdown for the entire day. It was March 25, 2012.
As the night wore on, I put away the sneakers I’d worn to the beach with Henry the day before. They still had sand in them. They still do, in fact. I keep them in the back of my closet. I can’t bear to throw them away.
Peter managed to get a note written that he sent to our friends and family, and we got lots of calls and messages because they knew how much Henry meant to us.
Still, neither of us stopped crying for hours… days… I wasn’t able to get ahold of myself.
It wasn’t until writing this that I could look back and thought about why.
When I first picked up Henry in Scotland, I was twenty-six years old and had just made a major life decision to leave the United States and my great job on Capitol Hill to move to England to be with the man I fell in love with on a plane.
My head was a bit in the clouds—I was fairly carefree but becoming a woman. I didn’t have much responsibility, and I spent my days learning about the UK and reading novels for hours at a time.
Two months later, I got married at the justice of the peace in England and honeymooned in Santorini. I immediately felt different about my relationship with Peter—he went from being my serious boyfriend to being my family.
And Henry gave us such joy. I was in love and loved. It was a happy, easy time.
Over the next fourteen years, my life would change in many ways.
We moved to San Diego where I tried to fit into the public relations culture there, but that career track didn’t stick. I missed Washington, and after 9/11 I had the opportunity to return and work for the Bush administration at the Department of Justice.
Soon after I started at Justice, I got pulled over to the White House, where I would meet another man that eventually would change my life forever: President George W. Bush, who eventually chose me as his press secretary.
My seven years of service in the administration took a physical and emotional toll on me, mostly because of the hours and the intensity of the stress of the work.
Of course, becoming the White House press secretary was the best thing that ever happened to my career. I learned so much—about policy, world affairs, management, and politics.
But the most important lesson I learned working for President Bush was about character and how to conduct myself under stress and attack. I found out how to be productive despite obstacles, and appreciated how a communicator can help calm a situation, advance a negotiation, or lead to a solution.
The press secretary is the pinnacle for a public relations professional—it was the opportunity of a lifetime.
But having worked in politics for so many years, I’d built up a fairly tough exterior. The daily battles can wear a person out, and in some ways, I became edgier and harder than I’d ever been.
It was also a lofty position, and the surest way you can lose your way in Washington, D.C., is to let any of that power or prestige go to your head.
Throughout those years, Henry kept me from losing sight of what was important in life: appreciation and gratitude for my health and blessings, and the love I shared with Peter and our dog.
We were a unit—the three of us stuck together. We knew each other better than anyone else in the world. As Harry Truman once said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.” And as Charles Krauthammer suggests, get two—in case the first one turns on you.
What I learned at the White House served me well when I went on and transitioned from being the spokesperson for the Leader of the Free World to speaking for myself. I’d never said in public what my personal opinions were before I joined Fox News as a contributor—and while it is somewhat freeing to do so, it is a bit like walking on a high wire without a net. And it doesn’t come without a price. The criticism from an increasingly unhinged social media network can be withering, and it takes a thick skin, a strong stomach, and a humble sense of humor to manage it.
And through it all, there were Peter and Henry.
While Peter mostly understood what I was going through, Henry had no idea.
He didn’t know that I’d yelled at a reporter or was sick to my stomach thinking about an article that I knew would hit the next morning.
He didn’t know that I was juggling too many balls and constantly lived in worry that I was going to drop one and that the consequences would be severe.
When I would lie awake at night thinking through all the things I could have said or should have done, he’d lie next to our bed and snore lightly—which wasn’t annoying; it actually made me smile. In contrast, if Peter snored, he got pushed to roll over.
Henry didn’t care that I got to dine in the State Dining Room with heads of state, celebrities, and some of the most interesting and accomplished people in the world.
He didn’t know about my sharp tongue and my occasional atomic elbow that I used to help get me through the job.
Henry knew me just as his mom. He made me look forward to getting picked up after work, because he’d be sitting on the backseat and he’d put his chin on my shoulder as we rode home.
Peter would ask me, “How was your day?” but I wouldn’t be ready to relive it yet, so I’d say, “Can I hear about your and Henry’s day first?”
And then Peter would tell me all about what Henry had done, because he knew that was what I most wanted to hear.
Henry made me get outside for fresh air, to take walks through our Capitol Hill neighborhood; we’d stroll to the coffee shop where they’d give him a biscuit and go to Frager’s hardware store to have a look around the garden shop.
He kept me grounded in the heady life I had at the White House and in New York City working in television.
Henry was a witness to my transition from the young woman of twenty-six to the more confident woman of nearly forty. So much in my life had changed in those fourteen years, but Henry was the constant for Peter and me. I didn’t know who I would have been without him.
Henry’s final autumn. Peter took this picture in Annapolis, right before we moved to New York City. We were excited by the new opportunity but worried about the toll it would take on Henry.
Around 10 p.m. the night Henry died, my phone rang. I couldn’t imagine who was calling so late and worried it was more bad news.
But it was our friend and fellow dog lover, Greta Van Susteren of Fox News.
“Dana, I know the last thing you think you should do right now is get another puppy, but I’m telling you it’s the best way to heal your heart,” Greta said.
Greta has a contagious confidence. She really makes you feel like you can do something—and she has strong opinions and very good advice.
I t
old her all the reasons I thought I couldn’t get another dog while living in New York City, but she insisted we think about it.
I told Peter about the call, but he said we couldn’t replace Henry.
Two nights later, at a diner we went to because the apartment was too silent, we looked at each other and said, “We can do this.”
Greta was right.
So that night, finally showing some signs of life after the death of Henry, we fell in love with our new puppy that we’d never even met.
We even named him: Jasper.
Nicknames
Every dog has its proper name and also several nicknames. It’s inevitable—if you’ve ever had a dog, you know what I mean. The funny thing is, they answer to all of them.
NICKNAMES FOR HENRY:
Mr. Henry
Mr. H
H
Hank
Poo (as in the Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo from South Park)
Poo Bear
Boo
Kangaroo
Turkey Legs
King Henry
Henry Krishna (For kicks, we’d sing “Henry Krishna” and clap our hands, and he’d bark his head off.)
Goose (the silly variety)
FiveFan Photoshops gave me this wonderful gift. This is what Henry and Jasper would look like if they’d had a chance to stand side by side.
NICKNAMES FOR JASPER:
Sir Jasper
Jaspy
Jasperino
Jasperpoo
Pumpkinhead
Peanut
Lil’ Ear
Chicken
Noodle
Baby
J-Man
Mr. J
Monster
Jasper
Why the name Jasper?
Well, it sounded like a proper British name. A good one to follow our distinguished Henry.
Peter had a friend in England who used to say, “Well, would you look at the size of that Jasper!” when he saw something interesting. It made me smile.
Besides, we think “Jasper” is a fun word to say. When you’re naming a dog, you have to test it out. Imagine you’re at the dog park and you’re trying to get your dog’s attention—what name do you want to yell out loud for all the world to hear?
One of our friends learned this lesson in a cute way. After months of lobbying by their young kids to get a dog, they finally caved. That was good. But then they let the kids name him. And guess what they came up with? Cuddles. Now the dad, who had dog walking duty, couldn’t imagine being at the dog park yelling, “Cuddles! Cuddles, come back!” So he nicknamed him Mr. C—a good compromise that preserved his neighborhood street cred.
Thankfully, Jasper was a name that fit the dog (and that Peter felt was appropriately masculine enough). Or Jasper fit the name. Anyway, it worked.
When we decided to get a puppy after Henry died, we were fortunate that a Vizsla breeder we knew from the D.C. area had just had a new litter. Henry used to stay at this breeder’s farm when we had to be away. He loved it. There were no kennels, just acres of leash-free fun and sleeping on the bed, not in a crate. The breeder knew the kind of dog owners we were and said she’d choose the right puppy for us.
Jasper was born on April 9, 2012, and we had to wait until early June to pick him up. The gap between those two months was never ending to us.
Jasper was so small, I used a $20 bill to show his size. Priceless.
Our apartment was silent without Henry, and we didn’t leave for hours at a time because there was no dog to take down for a little wander. We went on a couple of long weekend vacations to try to pass the time; one to the beautiful resort at Sea Island, Georgia, where instead of relaxing on the beach or kayaking in the river, we cried our eyes out about Henry. I felt sorry for the waitstaff; we’d take pains to explain to them we weren’t crying over the filet mignon. They were kind; we left big tips.
Another weekend we went upstate to Mohonk Mountain House and instead of enjoying the hiking, we kept thinking about how much Henry would have loved it.
We weren’t completely lost, though. Because we spent a lot of our time talking about our dog-to-be. That made us happy.
As the date got closer, our excitement grew. We were like kids counting down to Christmas.
Finally, on June 5, we got to meet Jasper.
We pulled up to the breeder’s home in a farming area of Maryland, and I dashed out of the car before it could come to a full stop. I barely said hello to the homeowners and went immediately toward the puppy pen in the living room. There were four puppies left, three females and Jasper. He was the biggest male of the litter, just as I’d requested.
“And he’s the sweetest one, too,” the breeder said.
She was right.
At the farm, the day we picked up Jasper. Our first photo together.
We visited with the breeders for a while and Jasper’s female siblings had a fun time ganging up on him out on the back porch. We didn’t want to leave but we needed to get on the road back to New York City before rush-hour traffic.
I held Jasper in my arms in the passenger seat. He was a little stiff, struggling against me like a baby that pushes away a stranger. But I had a firm hold. I wasn’t going to let him go.
Since I love a fountain Diet Coke, we stopped at a drive-thru before we hit the highway.
At the window I asked the clerk, “Do you want to see my puppy?” I held him up and she gave me what I needed—confirmation that he was beautiful. (Fast-food window clerks have seen it all!)
About an hour into the journey, Jasper gave up the struggle and let me cuddle him. I kept kissing his head.
And then I noticed something strange about his left ear. I looked at his right ear and then back to the left. I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks, but no. It was definitely shorter, and it looked like it had been cut into an arc somehow, like with a pizza cutter.
“Peter, did you see this?” I asked. He hadn’t noticed—probably because I hadn’t let him hold Jasper yet.
I called the breeder and asked if something was wrong with Jasper. She said she hadn’t noticed either, and with nine puppies to look after maybe that was true. But it was really obvious that he had one ear smaller than the other.
The day we brought Jasper home. It wasn’t until we’d had him for a couple of hours that I noticed that his left ear was smaller than his right.
We never planned to show him, so that wasn’t a problem for us. It was just so strange, and I worried about how it had happened and if it had hurt. (Years later, a fan sent me a photo of Jasper at four weeks old. She had chosen one of Jasper’s littermates for her new pet. In the picture, you can clearly see his left ear is shorter than the other. That was another example of connecting to a new friend on social media.)
But as with most unique attributes, Jasper’s mismatched ear eventually became his most endearing trait. He has no idea why we call him “Li’l Ear” or laugh when his ears flop inside out and one is so much longer than the other. When we take a photograph of him from behind, I love to see his lopsided head. He’s so perfect and symmetrical in every other way that the little ear rounds him out nicely. It gives him character.
The drive took about three hours. Jasper was unimpressed with the New York City skyline, but Peter and I never tire of it.
As you can imagine, Manhattan was a shock to our farm puppy. The first thing that went by us on the street was a screaming ambulance, the second a Harley-Davidson, followed by a stream of yellow taxis with honking horns. The noise followed us up to our living room.
Happy and secure puppies love to lie on their backs. Stuffed elephants too.
Jasper was spooked and ran behind my legs. I picked him up and calmed him. He got used to the noises pretty quickly, and now he doesn’t pay any mind to the sirens on the streets (but sometimes I still cover his ears). He seems not to mind the sounds of dropped garbage cans and construction trucks at 5 a.m. I wish I had his ability to tune it out.
&nbs
p; After introducing him to the doormen, we went up the elevator to our apartment. I set him down and showed him his first toy, a little yellow giraffe. It was so sweet.
But only for a second. Because in the next moment, he looked at me with his dark blue eyes and peed on the rug.
“No, no, no!” I cried, and tried to take him over to the puppy papers.
He ignored those and soon peed again on the rug.
This was unacceptable—even in New York City.
I realized he had no idea what potty training meant, whereas Henry had been so easy to train fourteen years ago. Henry had only a handful of accidents in the house, and that was only when he was playing so hard he lost track of himself. I tried not to compare Jasper to Henry, but it was difficult not to. I sensed a long road ahead with more than a little dread.
Peter and I had a lot of discussions about how we’d manage to train Jasper in a high-rise. Peter promised me he would never complain about having to take him down to the street level to do his business, and he never did. But it was difficult.
We had about fifty yards from our apartment to the elevator. It took a while for the elevators to come. When they did, the car usually had to stop five to seven times before it got to the lobby. Then we had to get through the lobby and out to the street, avoiding people and taxis, before the puppy could pee. Now that’s a lot to ask of anyone, let alone a two-month-old puppy. You should’ve seen how I would scramble up to the apartment some days when I’d walked home from the studio. Yikes!
We tried all sorts of things to trick Jasper into holding it until we got outside. Peter would keep his mind off it by racing him down the hallway to the elevator, stopping often to tell him to sit, because we were told he wouldn’t pee if he was sitting.
