I can easily count on one hand the number of times that a book has made me cry- and I don’t mean just case a lump in my throat, but cause actual tears to spill down my cheeks. One was Heart of the Game, which told the poignant true story of a minor league baseball player who was struck in the head by a line drive- and killed. As I came to the part of the book where the author was describing the funeral and how the umpires from that fateful day drove 600 miles to be there, I cried. (I was on the treadmill at Razor Sharp at the time.) Another was Facing Death in Cambodia, which explores the heartbreaking genocide in the country where my nephew Henry was born- and when I looked closely at the young man whose photo adorned the cover- a photo taken not long before that young man was executed- I realized that this could so easily could have been Henry, had he been unfortunate enough to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time. And again, I cried.
The latest instance came the night before last, when I was reading a remarkable novel called A Dog’s Purpose: A Novel for Humans, by W. Bruce Cameron, whose biggest fame might be for a book later turned into a hit sitcom called 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter, starring John Ritter. Having seen that show a time or two, I was expecting this novel to be a light- hearted romp and not much more- which is probably why it ended up hitting me in the emotional solar plexus as powerfully as it did. (In other words, it caught me with my guard down.)
Cameron has written this novel from the point of view of a dog. That sounds mighty strange, I know, but it’s incredibly effective. The author has found a way to sound fully authentic as a dog- to imagine what a dog might be thinking or feeling as they’re sequestered in the garage or rummaging through the garbage or waiting for their owner to return home – and all the ways in which they fully understand us and all the ways in which they don’t. And in another striking choice, we actually follow the same dog through several different lives. That part is maybe the strangest of all- I guess we’re talking about reincarnation, which as far as I’m concerned is pure poppycock, whether we’re talking about people or dogs – but I didn’t mind it in this novel because it allows us to follow this dog through several different lives and owners, some much nicer than others. And through them all, this dog is most anxious to find his purpose for living- right up to the end of its life. Here’s the passage that really got to me:
When I woke up, I knew I was dying. There was a sense within me of a rising darkness. . . I hadn’t given it any thought at all, though I suppose deep down I knew that one day I would wind up like Smokey the cat. I remembered the boy crying the day they buried Smokey in the yard, and I hoped he wouldn’t cry over my death. My purpose, my whole life, had been to love him and be with him, to make him happy. I didn’t want to cause him any unhappiness now- in that way, I decided it was probably better that he wasn’t here to see this, though I missed him so much at that moment the ache of it was as bad as the strange pains in my belly.
The nice man came into the room. “You awake, Bailey? You awake, fella? Poor fella.” My name, I wanted to say, is not Fella.
The nice man leaned over me. “You can let go, Bailey. You did a good job; you took care of the boy. That was your job, Bailey, and you did a good job; you are a good dog, a good dog.”
I had the sense that the nice man was talking about death; there was a feeling of kind finality and peace emanating from him. Then Mom and Grandma and Grandpa and Rick all came in, and they hugged me and said they loved me and told me I was a good dog. . .
And then I heard the boy. “Bailey!” he shouted. He burst into the room and the tension left everyone at once- this, I realized, was what they had been waiting for. Somehow, they’d known the boy was coming.
The boy buried his face in my neck and sobbed. It took everything I had to lift my head up and lick him, to let him know it was all right. I wasn’t afraid.
My breathing turned raspy, and everyone remained with me, holding me. It felt wonderful to receive so much attenion, but then a shudder of pain shot through my stomach so sharp I couldn’t help but cry out loud. The nice man came in then ,and he had another needle.
“We need to do this now; Bailey shouldn’t have to suffer.”
“Okay,” the boy said, crying. I tried to way my tail at the sound of my name, but I found I couldn’t manage even a twitch. There was another jab in my neck.
“Bailey, Bailey, Bailey, I’m going to miss you, doodle dog,” Ethan whispered in my ear. His breath was warm and delightful. I closed my eyes at the pleasure of it, the sheer pleasure of love from the boy, love by the boy.
And then, just like that, the pain as gone- in fact, I felt like a puppy again, full of life and joy. I remembered feeling like this the first time I ever saw the boy, coming out of his house and running to me with his arms open wide. That made me think of diving after the boy during rescue, the fading light as I dove deeper, the way the thick water pushed against my body, just like now. I could no longer feel the boy’s hands touching me; I could just feel the water on all sides: warm and gentle and dark.
Anyone who has lost a dog, but especially anyone who has had to have their dog put to sleep, knows what an aching knot of pain that causes. You know it must happen- you know it’s the right thing to do- you know it’s nature’s way- but all that you know cannot quite push away the grief of the loss, especially if you only now realize that you’re losing not a something but a someone. Reading the above passage brought back vivid memories of when we had to have Luther, our beautiful cocker spaniel, put to sleep. It’s an ache you never leave completely behind.
Bruce Fogle, a highly esteemed British vet whom I interviewed recently about his book “Dog: A Definitive Guide” says that we are much closer to our dogs than was typical a generation or two ago. . . if for no other reason than in how dogs are much more often with us in our homes rather than exiled to a doghouse in the yard or garage. Our dogs- even big dogs – live with us so much more than was once common – and it is because of this that we know them and they know us on a whole different plane. To make the point, Dr. Fogel asked me if I’d grown up with dogs, to which I replied Yes. He then asked where our dogs lived in those early years- and I realized that I have almost no memory whatsoever of our first dogs being in the heart of our family, and they figure very little in any of my childhood memories. Some of our dogs are such a vague blur that I don’t even remember their names – and which came when is also a blur. I know that Shadrach was first – and that Sniffles and Taffy came later, and maybe another dog or two were in there somewhere. The first dog to which I felt anchored emotionally was our pekapoo, Muffin, whom we had when I was in junior high and high school. He often slept with me (I loved how he would lay just close enough so that the curve of his back would just barely be touching me, as though he could only sleep soundly if he knew that I was right there beside him- and vice versa) and he felt like one of the family. His death was heartbreaking for all of us. (We left him with a farm family while we went on vacation, and the day before we returned, he was hit by a car or truck and killed.) We had collies after that who were similarly precious to us and now Kathy and I cherish our dogs almost (if not quite) like they were our children.
How is this so? Why is this so? Why do more and more people nowadays seem to allow dogs into the intimate, inner circle of their emotional lives? Dr. Fogle believes it is because the world has grown a bit colder and there is more to frighten us- and for many of us there is something so comforting and reassuring in loving and being loved by our dogs. (I should hasten that there are cat owners who might say the same thing about their cats- but it’s dogs I know the most about.) I sometimes think that one reason why Muffin became such an important part of our family was because we had him in 1974 when we moved from Decorah to Atlantic, and he made us feel a little less lonely and out of place in this strange new community (which eventually felt like home.) Likewise, I think when we moved from Atlantic to rural Beloit, our first Collie (I think her name was Lady) was a source of grace- especially for my mom, but for the rest of the family as well.
Kathy and I got our cocker spaniel Luther right before we moved from our first apartment to a house in the country that we were going to be renting- because my wife wanted a watchdog…. and then before she knew what hit her, we fell in love with a cocker spaniel puppy – not the least bit ferocious looking – and that’s who ended up being our “watchdog.” He also moved with us from that house in the country to the first house we bought on Carmel Avenue- and was also with us when we moved to here to Hillside Drive. Along the way there were accidents as well as plenty of cases in which Luther swiped food right from many a dinner guest’s plate. (I still smile at the memories of Luther once prancing through the dining room with an entire loaf of bread in his mouth- and another time when he absconded with a whole stick of butter.) But without him, our home would have somehow been so much colder…. and likewise, Kathy and I can scarcely imagine our current home without Ellie and Bobbi. I say that the day after Bobbi woke us up not once…. not twice…. but three times overnight, at 1 a.m., 3 a.m., and 4:50 a.m. As I stumbled down the stairs that third time, I was mentally writing the “Dogs For Sale- Cheap” ad that we would undoubtedly be putting in the next day’s paper. But then I got downstairs and saw those two golden retriever grins and those two wagging tails, and I felt almost honored that the dogs were so desirous of our company. To quote the Carpenters, They Long to Be Close To You. And truth to be told, so do we.
pictured above: Kathy with Luther, the night before we had to put him to sleep. One of my tenderest memories of that night was how gentle and quiet Ellie, our normally rambunctious golden retriever puppy, was… as though she had some sense that Luther was in bad shape and not long for this world. Another powerful memory from that night is of how Kate Barrow came over to say goodbye, shedding many tears.