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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 96th 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.) |
