The Tea, Spilled by Morning Joe: Hobson 🕊️

This is the Feb. 26, 2026, edition of “The Tea, Spilled by Morning Joe” newsletter. Subscribe here to get it delivered straight to your inbox Monday through Friday.

It’s taken a few days to find the words needed to describe the meaning of the loss of Hobson. Not just for my family, but for our friends and loved ones from Florida to Washington, D.C., to Bronxville, New York, and from Hanover, New Hampshire, to Northeast Harbor, Maine. 

Hobson was a Bernadoodle I got for my daughter more than 10 years ago, when she was finishing high school.

He was brought in for “emotional support,” and yet to this day, we all still can’t figure out WHO he was supporting the most. 

Maybe it was all of us —and everyone he met.

When stress was starting to build up, you could expect huge Hobs to press himself against you, and then dig his nose under your arm to force a pat in his direction. You could then expect a large paw to land on your foot or thigh.   

Then came the deep eyes.

A true empath. A huge heart. And a massive presence wherever he wandered. Hobs spanned almost 6 feet, 2 inches from toe to tail, was 115 pounds of wagging, galloping, flopping, loving, and so, so many hugs, and an occasional misguided hump. 

You always knew Hobson was there because he gave you no choice but to feel his presence. 

He approached quickly and bigly, with the fervent intent of delivering joy and deep connection — which meant you were trapped on the couch, scratching his back or his tummy, rather than doing what you thought you had set out to do.

He would lie in front of you, crossing his huge paws one over the other, and stare into your eyes— an expression that declared, “I’m here. Pet me!”

Hobson always rolled with the best of them. 

The big old dog seemed to love every moment, whether rolling around on our sisal rug in Bronxville — in a room large enough for a dog as big as Hobson— or enjoying quiet time chewing his football on the grass in Northeast Harbor, rolling over again and again with some kicks and twists thrown in, lathering in his own happiness. 

He liked his possessions, and he wasn’t good about giving them up. So best to just let him carry that football around with him until the ball finally dissolved in his mouth. 

He also loved little dogs. He considered them his babies and always snuggled with them. He loved his cat Blu, and they always seemed to roll about in tandem.

Hobson spent time going to college. Covid-19 gave him five years in beautiful Hanover, where he was known to all students and residents who lived there. 

He sat outside Dirt Cowboy, waiting for my daughter to get her coffee while shamelessly drawing a crowd of admirers around him, patting him from nose to hind legs. Hobson was a crowd-pleaser and knew how to draw a crowd wherever he went. 

To say Hobs was Carlie’s best friend tells so little of their story — but that’s her story. Still, as her mom, I will forever be grateful for that big boy.

It was tough saying goodbye to Hobson, yet moving through that process became easier when we realized how much he had taken care of us through the years. 

It was finally our time to take care of him, sparing him from more pain because we loved him so much that selfishly hanging on was not an option. 

Letting him go was best, not for us, but for Hobby. 

I keep telling Carlie that Hobson always put us first, and he always wanted to make her happy. Even now, living with the bright memories of him. That was his job. I say it to her hoping to evoke a smile through the tears.

And then I realize I need to tell myself the same thing.

Hobson, you did such a good job. You made us all so SO happy. Thank you ❤️.

All photos courtesy of Mika Brzezinski and Joe Scarborough

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