Wow, that’s the most depressing title
I’ve ever written (and I was a tween poet). Well, it’s not going to get much
happier from here. You’ve been warned.
A few weeks ago, I discovered that my
neighbor’s nine-year-old poodle had passed away. This wouldn’t be out of the
ordinary, except Babe was a bit of a special case. She was born with a heart
arrhythmia, her tiny ribcage beating in fluttery patterns when you held her.
She was only supposed to live eighteen months tops. By her eighth year, we all
thought she was going to live forever just to keep up the irony of it. It’s
really unpoetic of God not to make this dog immortal.
“Speaking of dead dogs,” My mother
transitioned on our Skype call last week, “Buster died too.”
This is less of a tragedy. I mean,
I’m sorry for my longtime friend and Buster’s owner, Carolyn, but Buster was a
bit wonky. And when I say a bit, I mean for the past ten years he would park
his chubby, rat terrier butt in the cat tree and bark at me every time I walked
into Carolyn’s living room.
Doggy death has become a bit of a
pattern in the past five years. A few years earlier, Buster’s brother, Duke,
discovered the answer to the black dog plus dark night plus fast car equation.
A block over, my brother’s best friend’s yellow lab was put down due to one of
the common big dog illnesses (hip dysplasia or bloat, I don’t really remember).
My godparent’s dog chased a rabbit into the metal side of their camper. All of
the dogs from my childhood are dead.
Except for Duncan, the white and
brindle Shi Tzu my parents brought home one night when I was five. He’s
fourteen now and comparably healthy for his age. He has some bowel problems and
ruptured a disk last month, but for the most part enjoys his days napping and
chewing the faces off his toys. Since leaving for college, though, he suddenly
seems so much older. Maybe it’s because all my information is second hand,
meaning my mother is more inclined to tell me about the ear infections and vet
visits than him dashing through the hall to get a treat. Maybe it’s because all
of the dogs of my childhood are dying to the tune of “Another One Bites the
Dust” or the cannon sound from the Hunger Games.
I have a bit of a “dead pet” motif in
my writing. My first ever completed novel, Dead
Fish, began and ended with the death of goldfish (exciting, I know). Dead
pets work well as metaphors for innocence encountering death. Parents purchase
goldfish and gerbils so their children can learn lessons in responsibility, but
also in death. It’s a stepping-stone for the harsher realities of life, the
hierarchy of funerals held in the backyard going from fish to parakeets to dogs
to grandparents (wow, Emma, you are just a warm mug of hot chocolate today,
aren’t you?).
But how does one feel when this test
of innocence is occurring at a time where they are already expected to grow up
fast? I’m away from my dog and my parents and my home now, living in an 11 by
15 room with only my roommate to look after me. My days are largely
unstructured except for a few hours of class and a few hours of office work,
leaving me time to think about ridiculous questions like is the death of dogs
in my life largely symbolic of the end of my childhood. It doesn’t have to be,
of course, because the only symbolism in life is what we choose to see. I’m
choosing to project meaning onto this common occurrence (all pets die, after
all) because I’m feeling a bit confused about and stressed over my own maturity
and responsibilities.
I’ll try not to dwell on it anymore
for the time being. Spring break is in three days, so I’ll be able to go home
soon and see my puppy.
