When I was born, our family had a 6-year-old Great Dane, named Hex. His "real” name was Baldour’s Hex-a-Fencelear. God only knows how he got that name. I assume Baldour was the breeder/kennel. The rest? Who Knows?
Hex belonged to a friend of my uncle, who lived on several acres in western CT. When Hex was a year old, this man was transferred to New York City and decided he couldn’t take a big dog like Hex to the city. (Stupid man, I’m so glad he was!)
In the meantime, my parents beloved cocker spaniel (Linda) had passed and they were dogless. They had a cat (black, Cinder) and Hex joined their small family. The house was tiny, but there was an acre of land with it. A half-mile down the road was a state forest. A big one.
Hex settled in quickly.
He adored my parents, but his most favorite person was my tiny, delicate grandmother. As Danes are prone to, he would back up to her when she was sitting down and gradually SIT in her lap! It was hilarious. Grammy loved him so much that when my uncle “won” a public television auction portraiture, she required him to take Hex and have him in the painting, too. Frankly, Hex is the best of it!!!
But I get ahead of myself.
Hex would have been considered “show quality” except for one small problem. When they cut his ears to make them stand up, either they cut too much off his left ear or he got an infection in
it, but it would not stand up for more than a few seconds. Thank God,
or we might never have had him. What a stupid thing to do to a dog.
My parents had him for a year or more before my sister (older) was born. Totally unprepared for this screaming (colicky) baby taking up everyone’s time, Hex determined that she was not for him. He would NEVER be anything but a gentle giant, except that whenever one of his parents got up during the night to care for the infant, he turned his face to the wall (he slept in the kitchen) and dug his paws against the plaster-board. He didn’t get over that jealousy for a good six months (Mother told me!). Dad had to replaster the wall. Thankfully, my father was adept at home repairs.
Two and a half years later, at the ripe old age of 6, he got another baby. This one was not colicky,and in fact, crawled over him, teethed on him, loved him beyond measure. And that big, pink tongue washed my messy face all the time. In fact, I adored him and never was there a sweeter old man than he with me.
On Sundays, we would drive to church in a tiny Simca car. Two parents, two small girls and one Great Dane. Hex would wait patiently in the car for us to come out after mass. Dad always parked in the shade and we left the windows open. For a dog that would break his chain (even an elephant chain) to go for a run, it remains amazing to me that he would wait patiently in the car for an hour for us to come out of church. When we were about 2 or 3 miles from home (about a mile from church), Dad would stop the car, get out and let Hex out. No leash, no rope. Dad would get back in the car and start driving again. Hex would run beside the car. Dad told me he “got him up to 35 miles an hour most Sundays.” Good weather only. Can you believe? 35 miles an hour? I remember this happening so Hex had to be 7, 8, 9 years old!!
Living out in the country (back then), Hex was taunted by deer and various other wild critters. His need to chase them led to broken chains and a missing Dane several times a year. He usually came home on his own, a happy camper. On occasion though, Mother and Dad actually had to advertise to find him. The state forest is huge and he was found more than once over 10 miles away. Thank heavens the chain would break, not his collar so his tags were on him.
It was not a big deal when we lived in South Glastonbury, beside that state forest. However when I was almost 4, and Hex was around 10 we moved to one of the three main roads in Manchester, CT. Talk about culture shock! I remember us just sitting on the front porch steps, counting the cars. There were sooo many.
We had a double lot, which meant plenty of room for Hex, especially for a Dane who was TEN YEARS OLD. Not only was he an elderly dog but he had some kind of cancer which manifested itself in open sores on his body. He had one small one on his hip and a large one on one of his front paws. These would open and close – but there was nothing to be done about it. I remember the paw rarely closed, It was a case of big open or little open sore. (We’re talking early 60’s.) Occasionally, he would limp as the sore on the top of his paw must’ve hurt. He also developed arthritis, so getting up after lying down was becoming a problem for him.
My father was never demonstrative toward animals. They had their place. That was the attitude he presented. Ha ha ha. This from the man who slept in fetal position for 2 years so Hex could just lean over and sleep at the foot of their bed. This from the man who fixed the broken chains, over and over and over again. This from the man who determined that Hex could sleep on the sofa, too – since he could just lean over and not have to struggle to get up. Yeah.
Right. Tell me another story,
Dad. Actions speak so much louder than words.
Somewhere, there is a picture of a 10+ year old Hex, standing on his back legs under our apple tree, with his front paws on Dad’s shoulders and the biggest doggy grin on his face, looking down on Dad. And Dad has a smile on his face, too. (FYI, my Dad was over 5’10” tall)
Short stories: (I’m irish, so there is really no such thing!)
When I was 3 or 4 and Hex’s paw was very bad, he was lying down by the doorway to the kitchen. I wore those hard-soled shoes (all little kids did then) and I tripped over his long back legs. I landed with those damn hard soled shoes on his open sore paw –squarely. I knew it had to hurt him badly and I burst into tears, apologizing to him. Giant crocodile tears, pouring down my face and his foot had to be on fire with pain. It wasn’t important to Hex, what was important to him was that his little girl was crying and he needed to lick those tears away and bang that tail on the floor as loudly as he could to tell everyone he was okay, and I needed comforting.
If I walked behind him, I was liable to be treated to a tail-whipping. He was such a happy boy, and I was a small child. I have this mental picture of me standing behind him (nothing like a dog’s ass!), him knowing I was there and the tail, wagging furiously. I can remember putting my hands up on either side of my face and saying “Hex, don’t be so happy. It hurts!”
When we moved into “the city”, the house had a wonderful fireplace. Sundays in winter were frequently spent sprawled over the living room with a fire going. Hex would lie as close to the hearth as he could get, and I would lie with my head on or near him. He had a white lightning bolt on his chest that I would look at from the safety of lying down with my head under his chin. Even asleep, he was my protector.
I was 5 or 6 (this was shortly before he went over rainbow bridge),
it was fall and time to leave for school. Our school was 2 blocks
away, so we walked. Something caught Hex’s eyes or nose and he broke his chain and took off (right in front of us). He went right for the road, and cars back in 1964 were these huge tanks. The light at the corner was red (thankfully) but cars were coming up to it, stopping. He bounded across the west-bound (empty) lane, and LEAPT OVER a car pulling up to stop at the light. I did NOT want to go to school as my dog was running loose with all those cars around!
Mother’s response was simply “He’ll be home before you are. Just go.”
She was right. When I got home, so was he. I can still see that elegant leap he made. And he was a Really Old Man of 11 or 12 – with that cancer!
Mother and Dad had him “put down” one day while we were at school. When we came home, I don’t know if Mom actually lied or just let us believe that Hex had gone for a run, but it was several days before they told us that Hex was gone. I think they needed to have time to grieve before dealing with our/my grief.
Our (my sister’s) cat, Cinder disappeared around the same time. One of our neighbors told Mom that she
had seen a black cat in the gutter shortly after Cinder went missing.
She must’ve been hit by a car. Less than a year later, my sister
brought home a kitten and was allowed to keep it.
I begged repeatedly for a dog. It was five damn long years before we got another one. Then he was a rescued basset hound, who – well, someday I’ll write up the stories of Rotten Ralph. Suffice to say, after a year and multiple attacks (by him) he went back to the Humane Society. When Mother and Dad left with him in the car, my sister was at ballet and they were going to pick her up on the way home. I held the back-door key in my hand
and warned them that if there was no dog, I was NOT unlocking the
door. They could starve. I EARNED a dog. (I was making dinner –
broiled chicken, potatoes and green beans, scary that I remember).
I had dinner waiting when they came home. They brought with them a rangy, mangy, stringy-haired black and white setter mix who “got too big” and was dumped on the Humane Society. That is a whole 'nother story... Tracey.
So now you know why I love Great Danes, especially black ones. Hex set me on the road to be a dog person and I can never thank him enough.
Great, Big, Wonderful, Sweet Hex.
There is a reason they’re called “Great.”
PS.
Many years after Hex had passed, I went looking for our old house in
South Glastonbury. I was only 3 when we moved, I remembered a lot
about it but not how to get there. As I was driving around the area,
suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow of a great black
dog. I did not make a wrong turn from that moment on. Hex led me
home. Sometimes I drive down there now and into the forest, just to
see him out of the corner of my eye. He’s not chasing deer anymore.
He’s watching over me.
pps. if I ever find an old photo of him, I'll scan it and post it.
