I Wish I Could Speak to My Dead Dog

My mother killed my childhood dog while I was vacationing in Florida. I was on the road with a friend and his family, at the age of fifteen, winding through the Carolinas, Georgia, the Smokey Mountains, to Florida and then back home. Arriving home after my two week adventure, I expected all sorts of excited greetings; My parents happy to see my tanned face, my brother putting Mario Brothers on pause for a moment to wave hi, my sister waving but not hanging up the phone, and the family dog jumping all over me, licking my face uncontrollably. Instead, the house was empty.

Although it might seem like she was named for a prostitute, Trixie was in fact a black and white, fifteen pound dog that was lovingly trained by my mom the "dog whisperer." She fetched the paper daily, would roll over, stay, sit, play dead, and do all sorts of other tricks that my miniature pincher does none of.

The current family dog (Trixie's replacement) is getting up there; Cass is a half Collie, half Alaskan Shepard who is the sweetest dog, fetches the paper, never needs to be leashed, and is fifteen years old. Old enough that my parents get her the one year rabies shot, instead of potentially wasting money on the shot that lasts two years. While discussing her approaching demise, I made my mother promise not to put Cass down until I could say goodbye.

Trying to make her case about putting Trixie down, my mom provided a laundry list of reasons: She wouldn't even eat liver sausage. Murderer! She wouldn't walk to the corner. Murderer! And was shivering in the corner, throwing up. Mur.... well that one is kinda bad. Did I want my beloved Trixie to suffer four days till I returned? No. Was it that important for her to see me, or me to see her? Yes.

Imagining her suffer pains me, but the idea that I could not send her off with a loving look and comforting pet is worse. I love animals. Sometimes more than people. While I'm not faulting my mother's actions, denying me this farewell under the circumstances, I want to be there next time a family dog dies. Death is death. It's not the similarity of the blood or species that's important, but the proximity of the hearts.

As if the conversation of her demise had been translated to her, while simultaneously exclaiming "don't bury me yet," Cass was overcome with the urge to play. She pounced at me like a tiger, ran circles around the living room as I gave chase, and came back for more.