Hogarth, Our Iron Giant
a remembrance
Grief is a wild thing, especially when the thing causing so much pain brought you so much joy.
Thirteen years ago Ryan called me on his way home from work, asking if it would be ok if we watched a rescue dog over the weekend. He sent me a photo of the tiny, scruffy dog with bright eyes. I said as long as Lou (our other dog) was cool with it, he could spend the weekend.
My response really didn’t matter since Ryan was already halfway home.
He stayed the weekend, and every weekend until this Tuesday morning.
The first few days and weeks were spent convincing an underfed dog that he could come out from under the craftsman we used as a kitchen island in our place in the Venice Canals. It worked best when food was involved.
We learned quickly how fast and elusive he was. One time he decided to come out from under his hideout and bolt through the front door, onto the path alongside the canals. This one and only attempt to make it back to the streets turned into a Pac-Man–like adventure through the walkways, ending when Ryan had to jump into the murky water to rescue our new, short-legged friend.
It was at that moment we knew he was part of our pack.
We had the perfect name: Hogarth.
If you’ve seen The Iron Giant, you know Hogarth Hughes. Ever curious. Always energized. A lovable boy who befriends a robot he finds in the woods. This was Hogie (pronounced like the sandwich). He spent every day of the last fifteen years making our lives better.
Hogarth was sunshine and scruff. The ultimate snuggler who insisted you let him under the covers. He would nudge his little nose under your hand if he thought you could use a few more minutes rubbing his back or massaging the top of his head.
When Lou wanted to play, Hogarth turned the dial to eleven. He ran his big brother into submission with endless, affectionate ear licks after their smile-filled battle royales around the house. If Lou was scared, Hogarth was always the first to comfort him.
The things we love the hardest are the most difficult to let go. I refuse, though, to let go of the sunshine he provided—even as the tears continue to fall while I write this.
Instead, like Hogarth always did, I’m going to seek out the brightest, warmest sliver of light and soak it up whenever I can.
The glimmer in my son Rheo’s eyes every time he sees a dog: Hogarth going in for an overeager kiss.
The spark of static electricity between my fingers and a sock straight from the dryer: Hogarth curled into a ball on top of freshly folded laundry.
The release of tension as we settle into cool sheets or a warm blanket: Hogarth impatiently claiming his spot before we could settle in, snorting at us when we shifted him even slightly—so long as we stayed touching.
The scurry of squirrels up a tree. The sound of Hogie’s nails strutting through the house.
The blur in the corner of my eye as I pass a reflective surface. Your loving eyes peeking through the front door window as we walk up the steps.
As Hogarth says in his final words to the Giant, I echo to you always:
I love you.
❤️ many will see a reflection of their own grief in this post. I still see our Bondi in my peripheral sight after losing him over two years ago. Recently a Substacker wrote about talking to our pets that have crossed that bridge, so now when i see Bondi i tell him it's lovely to see him again. He tilts his head in the way he used to when he was trying to understand what you were saying before bonding of down the hallway and out of sight.
I'll hold space for you and yours as you navigate what your loss means. Live on Hogie - you were deeply loved.
Matt, what a beautiful tribute to your furry child. May you and your family be filled with his love and light. Rest in peace, dear Hogarth... 💔❤️🩹