by Nick Trout
On a personal level, however, I was crushed. Naturally I told my father how pleased I was that his veterinarian had gotten to the bottom of the problem, playing down my diagnostic test as naive, a stretch, something to rule out, just in case. Dad never caught on to my disappointment and for good reason. If I told him how much it had meant for me to solve Sasha’s problem, to feel like I was the son who had become the veterinarian and could finally help him out, it would have been an admission of how much I felt like I had let him down.
As I saw it, this opportunity had not been a complete waste of time. Even though I hadn’t delivered, my father had witnessed my commitment. When I was a kid, Dad was the one who said, “It doesn’t matter if you don’t win. It does matter if you don’t try.” This was never about a vain quest for validation, about needing my father and mother to feel proud. Their love for my sister and I had said it all our whole lives. No, for me, this was about sacrifice, their sacrifice, their ability as parents to let go, to tamp down and conceal their own loss because they love so much. This was about the practicalities of being so far away, and wanting to give them the kind of special attention that only comes from being nearby.
As with so much in life, it takes seismic shifts for us to see and feel what we should have appreciated all along. Perhaps that’s why the shape of life is better suited to a circle than a straight line.
Whitney, our eldest, went off to college and then moved three thousand miles away to California. When I confronted her with how she felt about leaving the dogs she told me, “I hated the fact that I couldn’t explain to them why I was gone. And it got worse because I would come home for a vacation, and then leave, come home and leave, over and over again. Sophie and Meg reacted in totally different ways. Meg is so sweet but she can be a little, you know, simple. She was all over me as though nothing had changed. Sophie refused to be around me for hours, sometimes the whole day. I could tell she was angry. Eventually she would forgive me and we would go back to being in love until it was time for me to leave again.”
Emily is in her senior year of high school. I am another parent who watched his children head off for the first day of kindergarten, blinked, and saw them tossing a mortarboard into the air. Here I am, thirty years later, sitting in the exact same boat as my father and the boat hasn’t changed one bit. Like all the best rides, it’s over before you know it, but this time, when it’s time to get off, you and your child must head in separate directions. I think most parents instinctively want to keep their children in their lives. Now, finally, I get to see through my parents’ eyes. I wonder if I have what it takes to know that a child’s pursuit of happiness, whatever it involves and wherever it takes them, must always supersede a parent’s sense of loss.
No doubt, this is one more blessing, one more reason to give thanks for the animals in our lives. Their lives are like smaller, concentric circles within our own. Our pets are the kids who never leave home, and that’s absolutely fine by us because these kids don’t ask for the keys to the car, don’t turn up drunk at two in the morning, and don’t complain if you turn their bedroom into a home gym. Their presence in times of upheaval and transition acts as a touchstone, a reminder of normalcy, of comfort, and the certainty of a love that can get you through.
I would like to think our pets are not a replacement for the kids who leave home. Naturally I’ve caught my father talking to Sasha in a manner that sounds disturbingly like a two-way conversation by a bad ventriloquist, inducing looks of incredulity and head shaking from my long-suffering mother. But surely, that sort of thing won’t happen to me? From time to time, my wife points out a mannerism, an expression that is textbook Duncan (enough for her to occasionally label me as “Duncan Junior”). On some sort of subliminal, ordained level, are Meg and Sophie destined to step up and play the role of surrogate children in my life?
Though it pains me to admit it, in this context, over the last few years, I have become closer to our dogs, more mushy and attentive to their needs. The timeline for this heightened connection definitely correlates with our children’s journey through adolescence, in other words, for me, the appeal of our pets is inversely proportional to the angst and isolation of the teenage years. The pets want to engage and in their eyes we are always cool. For the most part, pet moods are predictable and pets revel in the status quo. No wonder we find solace in their company. They never give us cause to want to be without them, and maybe, on some level, this makes their absence all the more wrenching. We should be grateful for all the teenage ’tude, the sullen, moody, and independent posturing. It’s just nature’s way of enabling parents to let go. If our kids were like our pets, all sweetness and light, on the day they left home most of us would be checking into an institution.
Inevitably, the more I notice about Meg and Sophie, the more I remember about the other dogs in my life. Sometimes, when I take Meg for a leash walk, I may as well be walking Patch or Whiskey, smiling away my embarrassment, pretending the foot of leather tethering me and my Labrador isn’t really all that taut. Occasionally Meg even manages to exhibit some antisocial shenanigans around other dogs. It is as if, by hanging out with a Jack Russell terrier, she has somehow become indoctrinated, “terrier-ized,” molded into an unpredictable tyrant. Oh, it’s just posturing—direct eye contact with another dog, mutual scratch and sniff followed by a show of hackles and a growl—but still, it makes me realize that for all my efforts to do a better job of socializing our dogs compared to the dogs of my youth, sometimes I didn’t do so well. Or maybe, more important, my father didn’t do so badly. Thank goodness Meg’s veterinarian makes house calls!
Every so often, I am pleased to discover something new and unique about Meg or Sophie, a special trait to share with the children, trying to turn my observation into a smile and a memory. Recently, when I thought I had seen it all regarding Labradors and food, Emily made a startling discovery. As I have mentioned on numerous occasions, flavor is not a variable most Labradors care to consider. On this particular morning, Emily was in charge of feeding the dogs. Normally the mouth of “the Hoover” is placed over the dry food in the bowl, the waiter or waitress has time to blink twice, and presto, the bowl is empty. For some reason, Emily poured just a fraction of a normal kibble serving into Meg’s bowl, stood back, and watched. I would have put money on the reaction being snarf, gone, and a bemused expression that said, “Where’s the rest?” Instead Meg was stupefied. She looked at the offering, looked up at Emily, and refused to go near it. Let me state that again—Meg refused her food. As soon as the normal amount of kibble was added, the Hoover strapped on the feed bag and it was business as usual. When Emily told me I didn’t believe her.
“Meg. No way. Put a little Tabasco sauce on her tail and there’s a good chance she’ll chew it off.”
So I tried the experiment for myself and Emily was right. I got the exact same reaction in Meg. It was as though Meg was incredulous at the pathetic volume on offer, insisting we would have to do better, that she would not deign to ingest such a meager portion. What can I say; maybe Meg is fussy about her food after all.
Another unparalleled and enduring whim of my dynamic duo is their affinity for vacations. When we get away, they get away, their excitement palpable on the ride over to their “canine motel.” Emily has been crushed by the fact that Meg leaps out the back of the truck, then bounds across the reception area and straight through to the back of the kennel, where life is one endless game of chase or tag. Meg never looks back, the pause to say goodbye a waste of precious seconds. Meg is the kid who loves going off to camp. She is the kid who never gets homesick. Sophie, on the other hand, enjoys these furloughs because she acquires a new and invaluable purpose in life. She’s too old and too smart for all those asinine Labrador games. Instead she prefers manning the front desk, spending her days politely interacting with the new guests as they arrive, in the manner of a Wal-Mart greeter. When we pick them up, they are always pleased to see us, but they always make me feel like I’m pull
ing them away from the party too soon, as though I was the first parent to arrive.
Sadly, these days, what I notice most about Sophie is how she is growing old. She’s fourteen, an age that gets your attention, an age at which you begin to wonder how much time she has left. She is no longer able to climb the stairs. It’s as though she understands her new frailty, unwilling to risk a slip or a fall. I catch her waiting at the bottom, head angled upward, front legs trembling ever so slightly, hoping to be picked up. Her vision is not what it used to be, and over the last few years it has become apparent that she can no longer hear. When I call her name, nothing happens. If she doesn’t see you coming, she flinches at your touch. I have stopped taking her for walks off leash because once she wanders off the only way to get her back is to physically chase her down.
Whitney has noticed too. When she comes home to visit, Sophie still rolls over and whinnies with the joy of seeing her again, but as I watch the two of them reconnect, the way Whitney cradles her first dog in her arms, the way Sophie settles into place, perfectly content, I watch a young woman’s expressions pass through delight and pride to concern and dread. After her most recent visit, Whitney confided, “I definitely say a little goodbye to her every time I leave. Even though she’s so tiny I think our house will feel really empty without her, and I hate to think how devastated Meg will be too.”
I am reminded of another dog and another father delivering the devastating news of a broken bond. Once again, an animal from my past has reached through time and space because one day it will be my turn, instead of my father’s, to make a difficult phone call, and it will be about Sophie, not Patch. Will I do as good a job as my father did with me? How do I help Whitney to understand how the connection she currently feels is, at its core, permanent? How can I explain that it may be different later yet just as strong, with ramifications beyond her comprehension?
If she doesn’t believe me, I will know exactly what to do. I’ll tell her a story about a former client of mine, a remarkable woman named Sandi Rasmussen, who has taught me many valuable lessons about loss since the tragic death of her Min Pin, Cleo. I’ve kept in touch with Sandi over the years, and not so long ago she was on vacation in Europe, standing at the check-in line at Frankfurt Airport, when a young couple with a dog caught her eye. The dog was a striking German shepherd, and as they all stood at another counter, it was obvious from their collective body language and the expression of the woman working the desk that something was seriously wrong.
“I tried not to pay attention,” said Sandi, “but this dog was such a love and so handsome, I felt like I had to go and find out what was wrong. The man was a soldier who had just received his deployment papers for Iraq. He and his wife had been stationed in Germany and he was going back to the States, home to his family in Pittsburgh, and there he would settle his wife and his dog in his grandmother’s house before heading off to war.
“The airline claimed he had purchased the wrong dog crate for the flight and refused to fly his dog. They said he could purchase a new crate at a cost of 300 euros or they would have to miss their flight and pay another 200 euros to rebook. The soldier’s name was Daniel and he was devastated, tears welling up in his eyes. They didn’t have that kind of money. I’ve never had a shepherd, but it was obvious, this dog was special, incredibly well behaved, and obviously meant the world to this young man. How could he leave this animal behind?”
In a different era, given the circumstances, a shrewd airline manager might have been summoned, and, sensing an opportunity, done the right thing, getting the dog on the flight, gaining a customer for life in the process. Of course, these days, there would be no such compromise.
“There was nothing to think about,” said Sandi. “I gave them the money. Daniel hugged me so hard. He promised to pay me back but I told him it wasn’t necessary.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking, a kind and generous gesture from one animal lover to another, but so what. The thing is, it didn’t end there. Though Sandi was content to have played her part in making sure a soldier prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice was able to keep his dog, it turned out they were all on the same flight, and shortly after takeoff, Daniel sought her out to thank her once again.
“He wanted to know why I did this for him and so I told him the truth. I told him about my Cleo, a dog who wasn’t with me long enough but who is still there for me today. I wanted him to know that I got it, that I understood exactly how far these creatures can crawl into our hearts and I wanted him to realize that the feeling never really goes away. I was doing this for Cleo, and by the end of my story, this time Daniel really was crying.”
I imagined a young soldier, all macho crew cut, square-jawed and muscle-bound in desert fatigues, blocking an aisle chatting to a fiftysomething woman, mesmerized by her story and unable to hold back the tears.
“He cried so hard and he promised to pay it forward, to do something worthy of my Cleo. Then he gave me one more hug and said, ‘This is why I am proud to serve my country.’ ”
And for me, this was the best part, because here’s the kicker. Sandi isn’t American. Sandi is Canadian. She could have corrected the solider as he headed back to his seat to be with his wife, but she chose not to, because that’s not who she is. Wisely, she left it at that—the soldier had his lesson, I had mine, and one day, when the time comes, it’s a lesson I will pass along to Whitney.
During an all-too-familiar damp spell in July, I find myself spending a few days in the Dales checking in on my parents.
Of an evening, families in England might gather around a fireplace. Instead, we are gathered around a black Labrador on a luxurious foam dog bed, and as I study my father over a mug of milky tea, a part of me finally comes to terms with the fact that I will never be able to offer him a true James Herriot experience. I can accept this because I realize that what I have offered instead is no less affecting and personal. I wouldn’t want you to think that I don’t try to share my take on veterinary medicine at every opportunity. Over the years my father has joined me for consultations, observing my interactions with owner and animal with a kind of earnest concentration, before I force him into gown, cap, and mask in order to watch me perform surgery in the OR. It’s a far cry from his dreams of ether and ungloved hands or the physicality of large-animal interventions amid the jabs of heckling farmers, but he has stood quietly by, watching every cut and stitch, insisting he has been fascinated. On the drive home, from the passenger seat, he asks all the questions he held back for fear of disturbing me at work, and when he gets to our house his first order of business is to check in with my mum. To my delight, I have overheard whispered conversations as he recounts our day. He rambles because childish excitement has got his tongue, words delivered in quick bursts, as he shares what he has learned. As I listen, all I can think is that he sounds just like me when I was a little boy, when I was first infected with the “animal bug,” and I think back on my earliest experiences spending time with a veterinarian. Perhaps I haven’t done so badly. Maybe, on some imperfect level, I have shown my father a window into my world, a different world, and, given his response, I can tell it is not so different from the version he had always imagined.
“Did we tell you about your sister?” says my mother amid the click of knitting needles. “She’s gone and got herself a dog.”
“What the …” is the best I can manage as my brain grapples with a notion so absurd as to be unbelievable.
“Now then, son,” says my father somewhat sternly, “don’t act so surprised. Fiona has always been a dog lover.”
This claim helps me transition from speechless into the Twilight Zone.
“Are we talking about the same one-and-only sister who nearly got bitten in the face by a certain golden retriever named Whiskey when she was a kid and hasn’t shown the slightest interest in anything remotely canine ever since?”
My father tut-tuts away my recollection with a wave of his hand, as though he refuses to entertain su
ch a notion.
“Fiona was very fond of our Whiskey. So much so she decided to get a golden retriever for herself. They’ve named her Lily.”
Now I know I have been teleported into some sort of bizarro world where all my father’s dreams come true. It isn’t until I telephone my sister that I accept this outlandish about-face.
“It was the kids who wanted a dog,” she says, “but Lily is great. She’s the best. Yeah, so she digs holes everywhere and she’s turned the backyard into a muddy battlefield but we all love her to pieces.”
Have I dialed the wrong number? Where is the sister who always sided with my mother, protesting the acquisition of a new dog? How has she come to embrace a creature who is into trench warfare reenactments? I don’t know, but there is no denying the sentiment in her words. This Lily has been inserted into her family, a canine stranger, embraced and already vital, in a way I would never have imagined possible. Feeling the glow of what she has discovered, it makes me wonder whether Fiona had sensed something important was wanting in all their lives. Whatever it is that my parents have passed on, be it written in DNA or upbringing, finally, both their children have become addicted to the companionship of animals.
When Sasha gets up, following my father into the kitchen, I tackle her and chance the obligatory “once-over.” On her belly, slightly off midline and to the right, is a lump, firm, possibly fatty but well attached, not mobile. With great care I mention my finding.
“Yes, we know,” says Dad, laying a hand on her head like a blessing. “Not to worry, I’m keeping a close eye on it.”
I nod my appreciation but wonder how it might change over the next few months. What I keep to myself is my observation of Sasha’s front paws. She has big feet for a girl, and I notice how her toes are a little splayed on the left, reminiscent of an elderly woman with rheumatoid arthritis, the joints and knuckles thick and gnarly.