Reader Story #1 — Sheepdogs

We always had dogs when I was a kid. Sometimes one, often two.  It was an interesting situation, as my mother pretty much detests all animals.  She does not pet them, feed them or want them touching her in any way.  Our dogs seemed to instinctively know this and pretty much left her alone.

Our first two dogs were not memorable to me.  I was a young kid and my dad took care of them and they were not around long.  I do not remember playing with them or missing them at all.  Our third dog, Muffy,  was a purebred Old English Sheepdog who my parents hoped would make them big bucks having puppies.  My brother and I were still young ( elementary school) and Muff was always with us.  She slept at the top of the stairs between our rooms every night.  She followed us around and liked to go on walks in the fields and farms around our home.  All this changed when we got dark brown carpeting in the living room and up the stairs.  Muff was no longer allowed in there and she totally resented it!  By this point it was clear that she could not carry a litter of puppies, so my parents bought ANOTHER sheepdog whom we named Libby (Liberty, because we bought her in 1976).

With 2 very large, hairy dogs in the house and my mother home most of the time, the dogs were soon relegated to the basement for their days, unless it was nice out and they stayed in the yard.

My first experience of loss with these dogs was when Libby had puppies and we had to sell them.  Heartbreaking!   To take care of these little guys day in and day out and then watch people come to your house and take them away was sad.  I was probably in middle school by this point and dealt pretty well.  My younger brother had a tougher time.  I remember him hiding with the runt when the people came for it. I’ve heard my mom say she felt like she was torturing us;  i’m sure it was hard to watch him cry for this puppy.

Eventually, we had to get rid of Muff. She started running away and eating wierd things and disappearing for hours.  She needed out of the basement and more space.  We gave her to a farm and I remember crying about it and missing her a lot but we had been so worried about her that it was kind of a releif.  It was nice that the people who took her contacted us and told us how happy she was, running around the horses all day.  Even at that age I knew it was for the best.

So…since we were down to only 1 dog, we got ANOTHER sheepdog when I was in 9th grade…Tara.  At some point we got rid of Libby, but I don’t remember the details and I don’t remember being very upset.  Tara reminded me a lot of Muffy and her death years later when I was in collge was so sad I still cry talking about it.  I was home for Memorial Day and so was my brother.  Tara was laying outside in the driveway.  She was older now; didn’t move so quickly.  She loved when “my brother” came home and always met his truck in the driveway.  He was either getting ready to leave or just pulling in and Tara did not move away this time.  I was in the kitchen and he came screaming to the window to come out and help him lift the truck up because the dog was stuck.  My mom and I ran out, lifted the truck and he pulled her out.  She was a mess and it was a holiday weekend.  She could not walk and although she let my brother move her, she was in a lot of pain.  We were a wreck.  We called the vet at home (after all the dogs we had, my dad was on a first name basis with the man).  He opened his office and we brought her in.  The decision was to put her to sleep.  Trying to fix her would cost lots of money and be physically demanding on my dad because he would have to carry her out and in the house for weeks.  Not to mention, the vet told us she had a mouth full of tumors, which meant she was going down hill anyways.  My father would not make the decision.  He told my brother it was up to him.  If he wanted to keep the dog alive then that is what we would do.  The three of us cried and cried in that empty vets office.  My brother knew he had to have him put down and we said our goodbyes.  I can’t imagine how hard it was on him to make that decision and know that he is the one who ran over her.

It was almost 15 years before I had a dog as an adult.  We got a dog because we wanted one and felt that all kids should have one because its great to have something lick you and love you and follow you around.  We had no illusions about teaching responsibilty.  Kids are kids and we make them take care of the dog because they are part of the family and have to kick in.  With or without a dog my kids would have responsibilities.  I do most of the work with the dog and I don’t care.  The dog loves me.  We love the dog because he loves us.  I know now that I will always have a dog in my life and I know that at least my son feels the same way.  Its a connection to another living thing and loss is part of the package.

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** If you have a story you’d like posted, please e-mail it to me at:  storyingloss@gmail.com

I will not edit other than for web-appropriateness and formatting, and to maintain anonymity of authors and other human-animals.

Stories may be taken down at any time at the author’s request.

How to Not Say Goodbye

I’m an “animal person.”  I always have been, for what its worth.  I grew up in imaginary play with all types of animals, mostly cats I think.  I often tried to get friends or my brother to play make-believe with me in that animal world, to no avail.  So we played baseball in the side yard, basketball in the driveway, WWF in the basement…  typical boy games.  Playing animal roles and games was something I mostly did alone, though when my twin girl cousins came from out of town I was often quite successful in dreaming up all kinds of scenarios about veterinarians, animals on the hunt, and whatever else, and they were as excited and engaged as I was.  But those were imaginary animals.  I always wanted real animals around me as well.

So I begged for pets.  Mostly cats.  I pleaded the case probably every Christmas, birthday, good report card (A+ average = kitten?)…  and from time to time I was a real winner in that vein.  I think from the time we moved to the suburbs when I was 4 to the time I left for University at 17 we had:

Fish — countless fish, we raised bettas, angel fish, guppies, but just had a tank for a while in various locations around the house

Birds — I had a cockatiel, Gus…  my Uncle raised canaries so we had a few over the years, the only names I remember were Elaine and Kramer…  I had a parakeet for a while, Larry Bird (he was yellow and green)…

Dogs — We had a little peek-a-poo named Cocoa for a long time…  a greyhound rescue named Daphne…  a Great Dane named Mattie…

A cat — Woohoo!  My great triumph as a kid, a Himalayan cat (apparently they are good for allergies and my Dad was allergic) named Scamper…

I never any rodents or bunnies or anything else.  Which is fine.  Hamsters, gerbils, chinchillas…  I was never all that interested.

Despite my repeated successes however, few of these friends would last.  I think often parents acquiesce to their children’s requests for pets hoping that it will teach them responsibility.  Maybe some parents think about empathy, and certainly some parents just love animals themselves — which is certainly true of my Father, but not my Mother. I’m sure some parents just want their kids to shut up.

The problem was, we were “well rounded” children — high expectations followed us in music (we played piano, I played flute as well), school (OOooo, a B+?  You just missed an A…  next time, huh?), and to a lesser extent sports (we were encouraged to play, but as far as being the best, it was never ever expected).  Using pets as a lesson on responsibility and balancing a schedule is probably a bad idea.

Except for our little dog, Cocoa, many of these pets just came and went.  And most of the time I was given no warning…  I would come home from a friend’s house, school, and in the case of the Great Dane, I would call home on a Sunday from university and get the “bad news”…  Larry Bird flew away.  Daphne went back to the foster home.  Mattie was sold to a farmer.  Scamper was given away.  Gus found a new home.  I never witnessed an actual “loss” in that sense.  I never said “goodbye”…

My parents did their best.  But to this day I am not so sure what it is that I gained from these arrivals and departures…  certainly not any increased sense of responsibility.  The big three losses, the two dogs and the cat, had very little to do with my own failures to care for them, though the cat did like to “piss all over the basement” as I am often reminded.  I imagined for a long time what had come of them, in particular the Great Dane, who I loved and was a casualty of my going away and my parents not having the desire to care for her themselves.  (Incidentally, it remains the only time in my life I have cussed out my own Mother, sorry Mom).

For an Irish Catholic boy growing up around countless wakes and funerals during this period in my life, the process of grieving for human loved ones was somewhat familiar.  Pets, however, were different.  I expect this is true for most people who grow up in a similar type of suburban setting.  The image of a dog “gone to a farm” to live a better life is no ending, no closing point or physical departure.  I never saw an animal die until I was 26 and I went with my partner to put down his cat at the veterinarian, though certainly I had seen the dead body of some fish and one or two birds in my lifetime, not to mention roadkill and meat on the table.

As an animal person, those presences in my life provide markers, memory anchors around which I try to make meaning.  Their departures, however, are largely lost experiences for me, and I think are part of the reason I am driven to explore children’s experiences of animal loss.  Where do children witness an animal’s death?  How is it that we can teach children to explore grief when a family member dies, but when an animal dies or is sent away, we so quickly move on?  Are pets much different in our experience and memory than farm animals, wild animals, or imaginary friends?  Are animals different than lost places? What do those experiences contribute to our self-identities and ideas about the world as adults?

I think the only way to get closer to any answers, elusive as they always are, is to hear the stories other people tell…  to find some resonance in the sharing of memories, ideas, and experiences.  I have more specific stories of my own to tell, and hopefully will hear some of yours soon.

Send me YOUR story by e-mail:  storyingloss@gmail.com

Welcome… Step 1

Hello!

As of this moment I am attempting a launch of this blog.  I am unsure at the moment of how it will work exactly, how often I will update it, how I will get it “out there” into the world, who might be willing to share here, and how I can have a more open authorship on a wordpress-sponsored blog.  I can’t really afford to host it elsewhere at this point, so I’m hoping to work around this…  I’m going to start with a story of my own, which will be followed by others written by me, and hopefully, you…  and you…  and you…

So if you have something you want to write here or publish or a picture or site to share, please contact me at storyingloss@gmail.com while I figure out the details.  Know that it will be confidential if you desire, that this is not an advertising space, and that there is no requirement for writing skill or depth of self-analysis.  Put simply, this is a space for stories, and stories are sometimes hard to tell or read…  so be respectful of yourself, your memories, me, and other people…  and the animals, too.

Hope to hear from you soon!

Send me YOUR story by e-mail:  storyingloss@gmail.com