KEEP HOPE ALIVE

By Nancy Smith, JD, Editor

Paul Komoro’s eyes lit up when he began doling out treats to Maria and Baby Girl in exchange for the proper response to “sit” and “down.” Paul, 71, delighted in the exchange that made him the center of the small dogs’ adoring and focused attention.

Others in the room responded to the dogs’ contagious pleasure. For the price of some dried liver dog treats, Hollywood was getting some entertainment competition. In that moment, everything unpleasant was lost – his family’s estrangement, his wife’s recent life-threatening heart surgery and respiratory infection, the betrayal of his American homeland when his family was moved to a relocation camp with other Southland Japanese-Americans during World War II.

The smile on Paul’s naturally unexpressive face defined the simple joy a pet creates.

The inevitable question surfaced: “Why don’t you get another dog, Paul?” The normally loquacious Paul sat quietly, focusing on the performing pups. He said nothing. His wife answered instead, in the way couples often do—inserting themselves between their lover and pain. After more than 30 years of marriage, Geraldine wanted to shield Paul: “When we lost our last dog, we decided it was too painful. We just can’t do it again.” Geraldine’s use of “we” was an obvious verbal ploy to take the focus of a painful past experience off her companion.

The decision to share our lives with a pet is always accompanied by the grim prospect that statistical probabilities indicate the owner will outlive the pet. That likelihood is usually silent but emerges when a pet lover is without a pet.

There seems to be a need to explain to others with pets: “I’m not ready yet”; “It was just too painful”; “I can’t go through that again.”

The forgotten message is that the depth of the pain is directly related to the height of the joy brought by the pet. And the universal code among pets—from pocket pets to dogs, cats and horses—is that the only true competition is to see who can bring more pleasure to their owners.

But there are those who chose to stay on the positive side of the continuum, even when they have experienced the pain that loss of a beloved pet creates. They knowingly expose themselves to the emotional risk of loss and, in turn, save one more life from shelter euthanasia, abuse or abandonment. For the strength to dare tomorrow’s possible loss in exchange for today’s love, the world is a better place.

As a child I learned this lesson unknowingly from a mother who sometimes had difficulty expressing love for her family, but always made room in her life for a pet. Marion Myers had come to this affection late in life, but venerated it with tales oft repeated— like the story about how my father’s Springer Spaniel, Duffy, never liked her. She was leery about bringing the baby (me) home from the hospital to this potentially fractious dog.

In 1950, without the aid of self-help books delivered tomorrow by Amazon.com, my parents invented their own “introduction.” Placing the baby alone on the couch, they watched from the next room, poised for a rescue. They did not want to taint the introduction with the sent of one parent Duffy liked or another he didn’t.

As they watched in anticipation, the relief brought by sniffing inspection followed by the wagging of the Springer’s stub of a tail, made the success story worth retelling many times over the years. Duffy never warmed to my mother. But the stories abounded of how he tolerated my infant and toddler abuse of poking, prodding and pulling and how he helped me learn to walk upright.

My mother was not raised with pets, but took naturally to sharing her life with them after my father introduced her to the way of life. There was the inevitable parade of a lifetime of pets. From Charlie Brown, the oversized tom cat who napped with my dad, to Mabel the St. Bernard, Sheldon the lab-dachshund mix, Jinx the fox terrier-Dalmatian mix and Jinx’s son, Shadrach.

That one followed the other never carried a message at the time. Typically 1950s, our family never discussed “feelings.” But living examples are more lasting and powerful than words. The new pet does not replace the former, but pays tribute to its precious memory. To avoid the potential pain of loss is to deprive both a pet and its owner hope.

My mother was healthy, married, employed, self-employed, widowed, retired, ill and aged— all in the companionship of pets. Late in life, disease ravaged her body, but not her spirit. When Sweetie’s life came to an end, my retired mother rescued Angel from a shelter in Michigan while passing through in her RV. She had reached the stage where the statistical probabilities had turned. This young and energetic pound dog would likely outlive her, not the reverse. Multiple bouts with pneumonia, a heart condition and liver dysfunction did not discourage her from yet another pet adoption.

At her home outside Tucson, some of her final days were marked by what she termed “love-ins” with Angel—frenetic fits of petting fun when the puppy-like energy of Angel seemed to transfer to my mother’s weakening body.

George Fox was my neighbor. In 1986, when I moved across from the park, he became a part of my life—without knowing it. Each day I watched from the window as he walked his two dogs. Mr. Fox was engaging in his unusual gait. He would walk a few steps and hesitate, then start again. The dogs would lurch. Only careful study explained the dance. His daily walks were punctuated by tossing treats every few steps, which had to be caught and consumed by his charges before the walk could continue. I admired from afar the discipline of his daily walks—I have never mastered such routine on a long-term basis. He was devoted to his dogs, their walks and treats.

During my sporadic visits to the park, Mr. Fox always had a cheerful and predictable response. “How are you today?” always got the same answer. “Pretty good [studied pause] … for 85.” As the years passed, Mr. Fox increased his pride in updating his response. “Pretty good…” “for 88” “…89” “…92” “…96.”

At first, I saw Mr. Fox walk one dog, a sheltie. Then he walked two—a larger stray that found him in the park. Then the sheltie was gone—again he walked one dog. The stray, Hercie, grew old. As they aged together, eventually neither could perform their daily ritual any longer.

After his 96^th birthday party with neighbors and friends, it soon became clear Hercie would not have the staying power of Mr. Fox. When it came time to say good-bye to Hercie, Mr. Fox knew that his spirit to live independently in his house depended on his willingness to share his life with another. At 97, Mr. Fox adopted a puppy. The puppy kept him company in the den of his modest home, where he used a magnifying glass to read stock market charts.

Mr. Fox was a bright man—bright enough to turn his small but respectable pension into enviable stock market profits. He knew that the statistical probability had turned—he would not likely outlive his puppy.

Sharing today with another soul—two-legged or four-legged—is the triumph of hope. When the likelihood is that we will outlive our pets, we make a conscious decision that love is stronger than grief, that grief is worth the risk of love. When the likelihood is that our pets will outlive us, we declare the victory of today’s love over tomorrow’s grief. We trust those we leave behind will continue that tradition.

When Angel was secreted into my mother’s hospital room for a final “love-in” before Mom’s death, the joy confirmed the decision at the Michigan shelter was the right one. When Mr. Fox shared his last days with a puppy at his side, the adoption decision had been the right one.

The Marions and Georges of our world chose hope. The pain of loss is a small price to pay for the joy, which never leaves the heart once its there.

(Written years ago.)