I sat with my cat, Faith, in the waiting room of the veterinarian. Faith, a rescue, had been in our family for nearly 11 of her 14 years. And I’d strongly suspected this might be our last trip together.

During her physical, the vet started listing what was wrong. After four years of hyperthyroidism, she now had detached retinas (leading to blindness), renal failure, massive dehydration, and a troubling abdominal issue that might be cancerous.

“There’s a lot going on,” the doctor said, “and while we can do more tests, there’s not many treatments we can really offer …”

I grew up with cats. And I’d seen pets die. But I’d never had to make that call. I’d never had to decide to end a life. I’d also never had to break the news to my own kids.

My son, 7, understands death. He knew what I meant when I said Faith wasn’t coming home again. He wasn’t there as I held her, or as I looked on when the doctor added a medicine into a syringe. And he wasn’t there as I killed our pet. Yes, it was the humane thing to do, and yes she’d been suffering for months, but I still felt horrible. Like a twisted murderer.

That night, I held my sobbing son in my arms. Grief overrode him, and while I tried to talk to him about the decision, I couldn’t help but wonder about what I’d done. Who am I to play God? At the same time, how will I feel someday if my son has to make the same call about me?

We all live on borrowed time. Eventually, that time runs out. It’s not a pleasant thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder about my final days. Will I deteriorate and my body collapse issue by issue? Will my son, this same sensitive child I’ve raised, determine what to do with his old man’s body? How can I help him understand the nuances and complexities of this decision when I barely understand them myself?

Yes, she was just a cat. She brought joy to our lives before she crossed the so-called “Rainbow Bridge.” Yes, we made the right choice. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, with wars raging, people suffering, a world pummeled by climate change, racism, violence, political uncertainty and more … well, this all seems kind of minor.

Yet, isn’t this minor brush with death the most important reminder of all? If death is the shadow of life we all ignore, maybe it’s good to occasionally recognize that death is there, and not something to be feared. Maybe it’s good to show my son the tears and fears, and hope that within his small, sensitive heart, he has learned that we are all doing the best we can.

I spent the next day setting aside extra time for the kids. We started decorating the house early for Christmas, singing songs and visiting the playground. Not simply to distract, but to remember that in this borrowed time of ours, every moment counts. And as we said goodbye to a pet, we are reminded of how fortunate we are to have such a loving family.

And together, even with the world seeming to succumb to its many ailments around us, we’ll keep focusing on the joys.

Remember pet photo: © Soloviova Liudmyla / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our archives for great articles you might have missed over the years. This one about a dad explaining the tragedy of the Boston Marathon bombing to his children comes from 2013.

I was leaving Target, the kids fast asleep in their car seats when I got a cell phone alert about the explosions. I quickly tuned into the local news radio station, figuring it would have the most up-to-date information.

As the day’s events unfolded, traditional media and social media had a hard time keeping up with the news. Confirmed reports. Unconfirmed reports. It was very hard to decipher what was true. I looked back at my two young children, soundlessly napping, and was glad that I wouldn’t have to explain this horror to them. Their preschool teacher certainly wouldn’t be bringing the subject up.

Unfortunately, it’s very likely that this will not be the last act of violence our country and children will see. So one day, my little ones will ask me what’s happening … and I don’t know exactly the best way of explaining tragedy to children. I believe I would try to provide as many hard facts gleaned from reputable sources without confusing or scaring them with hyperbole.

During this day, I spoke with other parents. Opinions on how to handle speaking with kids varied by the age of their child.

Many recommended talking about the brave men and women who ran toward the explosion to save other people.

“I think it’s best to shelter them from it,” said Mike, a father of a 5-year-old son in Northern Virginia. “It will just make them scared to go into public places.”

My wife worried our kids might overhear teachers or older kids at school talking about the attack. She said she would try to reassure them that we are safe and gently explain that “people were hurt but the police, firemen, and hospital people helped them” This would teach them to always remember that the “good guys” such as policemen, firemen, and EMT are there to protect them. They are the real superheroes!

Parents of older children felt they needed to be more direct.

“I simplify the facts to her level of comprehension and allow her to ask as many questions as she likes,” said Christine, a mother of an 8-year-old daughter and an infant son.

“We tell our daughter the truth,” said Suzanne, the mother of a 10-year-old who lives just outside of Philadelphia. She said it’s sad that it is becoming more commonplace to talk to her daughter about violence. However, she uses these teachable moments as a time to talk about being compassionate and empathetic toward others.

These kinds of tragic events stick with children for a long time. Especially, children with big imaginations. One of the most vivid memories of my childhood was watching the Challenger explode. They had wheeled TVs into the classrooms so we could watch the launch. Then, “IT” happened. I don’t remember exactly how it was explained to us, but I do remember being told not to be scared, to wait for the facts, and to pray for the families of the people who died.

While there are some really bad people in this world, I think if we focus on reassuring our kids that there are also many really good people then they will be all right.

Explaining tragedy to child photo: ©  Satjawat / Adobe Stock.

We’ve all seen the meme. “This is fine,” says the dog surrounded by flames. But, of course, at one point or another, we are all not fine.

Just when you think you’ve figured out everything that life could throw at you, it hurls the nastiest curveball ever. How we cope with these unexpected transitions is one of the biggest tests of parenthood.

The most recent curveball I faced came streaking from the mound this spring. Our family had just settled into a really good routine. After being a stay-at-home dad for six wonderful years, I’d gone back to work part-time. With this new juggling of multiple small jobs, we enrolled our daughter in daycare.

All seemed well until she was home sick one day, and acting up.

“What would they say if you acted this way at school?” I asked. Without missing a beat, she responded, “They’d hit me.”

It was such an innocuous response. The answer of a 3-year-old who doesn’t know anything’s wrong. But her answer tore my heart in two.

I tapped into all my training on what to look for when a kid tells you something disturbing and did some digging. I soon realized this was no casual comment and no mistake.

My daughter had been spanked at her daycare. She told us that this was a regular punishment for unwillingness to go or to listen when going to the bathroom. We were appalled.

We confronted the daycare and alerted the authorities. We withdrew her immediately and only then did the full implication of this set in.

I was back to being a full-time dad. Our daughter had suffered a trauma, and we had guilt over ever sending her to daycare at all. My daughter was home now full-time, which affected both my son and wife (who also works from home). The stress grew and grew.

And, as so often happens, life follows a successful curveball with another wicked breaking ball. This time it was a series of illnesses, including a truly difficult hospital stay for my son.

So, here I am, still at the plate, two strikes down, still ready to swing. How do I keep standing? I know life’s next pitch might very well send me back to the dugout. I know I’ve little chance of success. How do I stay positive, with a smile and the “this is fine” mentality when there are flames all around?

Coping through silliness

I think the answer’s different for everyone. For me, I knew I needed something to latch onto. Both during the COVID-19 pandemic — one of the most trying of times for all parents, not just me — and this recent spat of bad luck, I found myself grasping for joy and hope. Hope is often portrayed as this flimsy, fragile emotion, but it’s really the opposite. It’s the layer of diamonds beneath the shaky crumbs of insecurity. And my answer both then and now has been silliness and dance.

Embracing the silliness in life is something I’ve written about before. It’s continued to work. Goofy voices (and Mickey and Donald, too), silly walks (Monty Python eat your heart out), or just plain pun fests (pun-ishment, indeed) are all avenues for moving forward. A forced smile is still a smile. And forced smiles do the strangest things. They spread. The more I smile, the happier my daughter is, and the happier my entire family is.

I will interrupt this regularly scheduled post with the important caveat that I most certainly cannot dance. Not even a little, and not even after multiple lessons. But that doesn’t matter. I do dance, especially with my kids. This was the perfect time for Bluey to release that extended version of the song “Dance Mode.” Yeah, it plays on repeat daily now at this house.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m angry over what happened. Furious, even. Yet the rage doesn’t serve my family, right now. And I still have days where my own battery feels low, to be sure. But every batter comes to the plate with at least a little doubt. The best hitters are only successful about 30% of the time, after all. Yet, if you stare down life as it’s winding up to toss another pitch, and truly believe that everything is, in fact “fine,” no matter what flames you’re ignoring, perhaps you’ll manage to hit one out of the park after all.

Ok, maybe this isn’t fine. But it will be in time.  

Photo: © globalmoments / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: June 12 marks the anniversary of the 2016 mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people died and 53 were wounded when a lone gunman attacked patrons of the gay nightclub. It was the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history at the time (it’s since been eclipsed). This article originally ran just two days later.

I woke up Sunday morning blissfully unaware. It was a rare opportunity to sleep in, not having to get up and hustle into action. When I did roust myself, I leaned over, kissed my husband good morning, and shuffled into the kitchen to pour my morning cup of coffee. And, of course, I checked my phone.

The first thing I saw: a text from a good friend of mine.

“When I saw the news this morning, I immediately thought of you and Chris, and wanted to express my sadness and outrage that even in the most powerful country in the world, we are so flawed, so full of hatred and fear,” it said.

She went on to let me know that she loves me and my family, and was thinking of us.

I didn’t know what prompted her message.

A quick web search revealed facts about the mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people gunned down on a Saturday night. During Gay Pride Month.

And, once again, I had to decide how to discuss evil with my daughter.

Nightclub shooting our latest tough conversation

It’s not the first time. She’s almost 15. Like so many other parents, I’ve been having conversations with her since she was a toddler, with horrifying regularity. Sandy Hook. Virginia Tech. San Bernardino.

When she was little, I consulted books about how to talk about death and violence with children. Do you avoid the topic, and shield them from it altogether? Should you mask real-life tragedies in analogies or fables? Or, should you stay honest, but use gentle language that minimizes the brutality?

Now that she’s a teenager, we talk about this stuff with more directness and clarity. Real-life violence has yet to touch her life directly, which is a blessing. So we did talk about the Pulse nightclub shooting, and I decided to go with accuracy and less emotion (which is always difficult for me, as someone whose emotions tend to be the boss in my head): Who the shooter was, what he did, what was known/not known about him at the time.

We had our talk, and it was briefer than conversations in the past. She hadn’t seen the news yet so I just filled her in on the latest Horrible Thing that had happened, and that was that.

Her reaction was difficult to read. Whether that’s because we were used to these talks by now, or because she’s at the stage where she’d rather process stuff on her own, it’s hard to say. I did realize, though, that this tragedy in Orlando felt different from other mass shootings for me, and possibly for her as well. Why?

Because the Orlando shooting was the deadliest in American history.

A horrifying loss of human life.

Fueled, in part, by a hatred of gay people.

And, because, I am gay.

How can she not worry?

I have been out for five years, and this is the first time such a violent act has ripped into this community I proudly call my own.

My daughter tends to be a worrier. She’s gotten a handle on it over the years, but she has the double whammy of having a very active imagination and a short anxiety fuse. So when my husband and I go out at night and she stays home, she still gets a bit nervous if I don’t text her to check in at least once. (Total role reversal. In another year or so, I’ll be the one asking her to check in.)

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

And while our evenings out are usually pretty benign, my girl knows that every once in a while, we do love to go out dancing. Dancing is deeply important to us. It’s how we find our feelings, connect with the world, and thank the universe for everything that we have. We plan to keep on going out and dancing until we’re in wheelchairs. And hopefully, by then, science will have developed the technology to make robot legs and neural Groove implants so we can not only keep dancing but look even cooler than the young whippersnappers around us.

My daughter, the worrier, sees the news from Orlando about the Pulse nightclub shooting as such: people in a gay club — people there because they love their community, love each other and love dancing — being heartlessly killed. The gears in my girl’s brain turn, and she makes the connection.

Someday her dad and stepdad could be in a club, dancing happily, and be killed by someone evil, simply for being.

I know her. That’s how her brain works.

Evil will not triumph on the dancefloor

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

But can I tell my daughter her worry is unfounded?

No.

Because the scary truth of it is, it’s sheer luck that I was never in a club at the same time as a monster with an AK-47. This was the killing of my people, in my house. There is no way to pretend otherwise.

So how do I talk about that with my daughter?

In this strange new world where some members of our nation are zealously clinging to their right to own guns, where any attempt at greater gun safety and regulation is met with an outcry of “You can’t take my guns away from me!”, where someone on an FBI watch list can still own a gun and carry it into a place of safety and sanctuary and act out his dream of being a vengeful god, where being gay can still result in persecution, shame and outright fear …

I don’t know what to say to my daughter about that. She’s afraid for me, and I can’t tell her that fear is unfounded.

All I can tell her is this:

Yes, there is a lot of hatred in the world.

That hatred tends to come from fear and ignorance of those we don’t understand.

That hatred can sometimes result in evil, violent action.

But there are far more people who believe in the value of love, and human life, than not. Evil doesn’t rule. It just gets more press.

Oh, and one other thing:

There’s no way in hell that evil is going to keep me from dancing. Ever.

Pulse nightclub mass shooting photo: ©  Alex / Adobe Stock.

Many fathers aim to be as inventive and fun as Bandit Heeler from the cartoon Bluey. Most of us wish we also had a way to easily hit the “reset” button on our kids when they misbehave. Recently, I’ve discovered you can combine the two ideas: spontaneous silliness meets the simplicity of the “Nurtured Heart Approach” reset.

Let me explain through examples.

I was having a rough day. A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day to borrow from a popular book. The sky was gray and my mood was grayer. I couldn’t deal with any more of my 3-year-old’s screams, and I was just soooo tired.

I picked up my 6-year-old son at school and saw at once that although we’d been apart all day, we seemed to have had similar days. His normally exuberant face was downcast, and his lips were curled into a frown. He might as well have gotten into the car with an actual raincloud overhead.

Things weren’t headed in a good direction. My 3-year-old daughter took a hard look at her sad-sack brother and grumpy dad, and she wound up a scream the way a major league pitcher winds up before a pitch. We needed a reset. And we needed some silliness.

That’s when the dragon attacked. (I’m a fantasy author so my mind seems to naturally go to dragons.)

I cried out, pointing through the car’s sunroof, and warned them to duck. The car swerved to avoid the blast of fire. When my son protested he didn’t see a dragon, I realized it was an invisible dragon. Another car swerve, and everyone was laughing — except the car behind me who probably thought I was nuts — but that was OK.

We veered from the normal route home and drove into the rainforest. There, monkeys attacked us. Then, we climbed a mountain with yetis before heading home. There were no gray clouds, no sad kids, and no sad dad.

Sometimes, you just need to go ragdoll on them

A similar reset occurred a week later. My daughter was being a “threenager” that day. (Three is an age I’m convinced exists to limit the population. That whole “terrible twos” thing is a lie: age two is great. But threes … oof.) I don’t even remember what the fuss was this time. I think she was angry that she had feet or that there was too much air in the world, or maybe that I existed.

I’d tried reasoning as calmly as I could. And then, she started demanding candy, which she was not getting. I believe she wanted candy as a reward for accepting that she had feet and the world had air. Honestly, I can’t recall.

But I do remember the scream-fest. It rose in decibels until the entire state of Delaware likely heard her. I know that’s not too impressive given Delaware’s puny size. Still, it was pretty loud.

So, I stopped. Literally. Borrowing a trick from the Bluey episode ‘Ragdoll,’ I turned into a doll, fell to the floor limp, and just lay there. The screams intensified. Surely, she could blast me into candy compliance! No? Maybe she could just tug on Dad’s arm, a bit? No? What is he doing laying there?

She was confused. Then, the most amazing thing happened. Her face brightened, and she dropped to the floor beside me. She became a ragdoll herself, and just wanted to cuddle. Yet again, the “reset” had worked. And the silliness had rescued an intolerable situation.

These are just examples. Honestly, it’s not hard. When you feel like you’re headed the wrong way, just do the opposite. Laying down on the ground wasn’t just to mix it up, it honestly felt great. I was tired. I wanted to lie down anyway. Parenting is exhausting work, after all. And swerving the car, or driving through imaginary jungles might not be the first thing that comes to mind, but it sure as heck beats driving deeper into the doldrums.

I’m not a perfect parent. I’m not sure there is such a thing. And I get down, just like anyone. But by using resets and silliness, I’m able to turn my days and my kids’ days around.

That’s something I’m proud of, and encourage all parents to try. 

Photo: © Mat Hayward / Adobe Stock.

Coping with the loss of a pet is difficult for parents and children alike, as Christian Lemon wrote about in his recent column for City Dads. So what’s the best way to deal with the death of a pet, be it furry, feathered, finned or what have you?

The internet is filled with many great tips and resources on the subject. We’ve distilled the most common advice on coping with pet loss to help you and your children get through grieving and mourning.

It’s OK to be upset about a pet’s death

“It’s just an animal,” some will say upon learning of the death of a pet. “Don’t let it bother you. You can just get another, right?” Chances are these people have never owned a pet.

Pets become beloved family members and best friends to many. They pass no judgment on us, and offer constant companionship and even unconditional love. We confide in them. We seek comfort from them. Often, we pamper them as we physically and emotionally care for them. It’s no wonder that 85% of the 400 U.S. adults surveyed by Veterinarians.org in 2021, said the loss of a pet was harder than or as hard to deal with as the loss of a family member or friend.

Therefore, feeling sad, remorseful, and even anger are all natural grieving responses to the loss of a pet just as they would be to the death of a relative or friend. Talk about your feelings with a trusted person who will understand. Encourage your children to express their feelings, too.

Talking to your children about the loss of a pet

Experts agree a direct and honest approach is the best way to talk to children about a family pet’s death:

• Find a quiet, familiar place and a time without distraction. Avoid these talks right before school, an activity or bedtime.
• Speak calmly and use simple, concise language. Don’t overexplain or make up tales about pets “going away.” If a pet is old or ill, for example, explain that its body stopped working properly and even all the veterinarian’s skills and medicines could no longer fix it. If a pet must be euthanized, explain that it is the kindest way to stop the pain and suffering of the animal.
• Avoid euphemisms. These might confuse or frighten a child. For example, saying a pet is being “put to sleep” or “going to sleep forever” may create worries about a child’s own bedtime.
• Share your feelings with your child about your pet’s passing. Showing your vulnerability lets your child know it is OK for them to do the same.

Being with your pet at death

Whether you should be present when a pet is euthanized is a personal choice. Some think being there to comfort their pet in its last moments is a final gift to their companion; others find the pain of witnessing their loss and death too great. One thing to consider is how you think you will feel after. Guilt and regret for not being present are common.

Children, just like their parents, should also be given a choice. While parents naturally want to shield their children from pain, their being present can also help them grieve and mourn later.

Consider the child’s age and temperament. Talk about the euthanasia process beforehand. Read an age-appropriate book about pet death with them, such as Goodbye, Mousie or The Tenth Good Thing About Barney (ages 3 to 8).

Honor your pet’s memory, express your feelings

Burying your pet in the backyard or spreading its ashes at its favorite play spot is sometimes not enough to bring closure. Hold a small candlelit ceremony where each family member shares a brief favorite memory of their pet. Children can choose one of the pet’s toys to bury with it or have them decorate a stone for a grave marker. They can also help plant a tree in the pet’s honor.

Afterward, use creativity to help yourself or your children through grief together. Write a letter to or a poem/story about your deceased pet. Make a scrapbook or box of memories/mementos of your pet. Have your kids draw pictures of themselves and their pets times together.

Coping with pet loss takes time

While believe getting a new pet right away will help take away the pain, that’s not always the case. Make sure you can physically and emotionally handle those duties again. Practice self-care. Join a pet loss bereavement group or find a friend who has undergone a similar loss to talk to.

RESOURCES:

• An Age-by-Age Guide to Explaining the Death of a Pet to Children – Family Education
• Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement – They have a comprehensive list of books for adults and children to help with understanding the loss of a pet.
• Best Friends: Pet Loss Grief Resources – Includes a list of books for adults, teens and young children
• How to Talk to Kids About the Death of a Pet – Child Development Institutes
• Managing Grief: A Guide to Mourning and Memorializing Your Companion Animal – Michigan State University Veterinary Medical Center
• Grief Support Center – RainbowBridge.com

Coping with pet loss photo: © Soloviova Liudmyla / Adobe Stock.

I’ve tried not to let the death of my father to COVID-19 a year ago change my life too much. I still have to be a husband, a dad, a colleague and a friend but the weight of what happened makes my shoulders stiff and sore. These past few months have been especially difficult. My motivation has been pretty much nowhere to be seen. My patience has been almost nothing. 

In a way, I haven’t completely processed everything that happened during those two weeks in December 2020. As a nation and world, we were fighting through a pandemic that was — and still is — killing so many people. The virus doesn’t care whether you are healthy or not let alone the demographics that we identify with. We’ve continued to fight it since the passing of my father, and I take every day to try and make people aware of the gravity that is COVID. 

In the weeks and months leading up to the month of my father’s passing, I am on the record for saying, “I wear a mask because I don’t want to be the reason I pass this onto your family members, who then pass it to someone who loses a loved one because of it.” I don’t hold any ill feelings toward whomever it was who passed COVID on to my dad. I’m frustrated that there are those who made a choice to not listen to my concerns or those of the people who are studying the virus and how it affects people.

I thought parenting when I had depression was difficult, but it had nothing on trying to be a dad while grieving the death of my own father. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him and my eyes get a little watery. Each day I step foot into our garage I’m reminded of him. We bought his brand new 2020 Toyota Highlander from his estate. He was so proud of that car and he had some big plans to travel in it and see the world. It’s one of the things that we plan to do to honor him.  

It hasn’t been easy handling my father’s estate either. There are days it’s a full-time job fielding phone calls and signing paperwork. And then there is all of his … stuff. He was the type of person who never would let a piece of paper go. He had checks and bank records dating all the way back to the early 1970s.

My son, Joseph, has asked me several times as we go through my father’s things, “Dad, what are you doing?” Many times, when I explain that I’m going through grandpa’s belongings his response is, “Oh … grandpa died.” It tends to make things worse for me internally. Not only is going through box after box a reminder enough of what happened, but then my youngest reminds me on almost a daily basis.

The where, the how, the crazy that happened during his two-week struggle with COVID-19 no longer matter at this point. What matters to me is I am here for my family. Where I am now, is that I want to show my boys how great their grandfather was. I want them to know how lucky they were to have him. I want them to know that it’s OK to miss him and we need to continue to live out his legacy. 

Parenting through all of this has not been the easiest. I admit my temper spikes at times … and does so rather quickly. I am having a harder time leaving work at the office because it serves as a distraction. When I have a bad day at work, my family can typically tell as I’m more prone to yelling and being generally grumpy with them about some of the littlest things. This happens mostly on the days I’m having a hard time internally working through the death of my father. There are periods of time when I zone out and think about the memories I shared with my dad. And then there are times that I break down in tears for no reason at all. Then there are all the nightmares one has living through the moments that lead up to and after a traumatic event in their life. 

It’s hard for us as men to admit that we are going through a rough time. But when it comes to parenting through the loss of a loved one, it is important to let your kids see you grieve. They need to be able to see that it is OK to be sad and upset. It is just as important for them to see you push through and celebrate the person.

I’m not guaranteeing that it will be any easier moving forward but when I look back at the man that my father was, I strive to be half the man he was. That’s what I want my kids to see. 

A version of this first appeared on The Rookie Dad. Grieving death of father photo: © Rawpixel.com / Adobe Stock.

EDITOR’S NOTE: If you or someone you know needs help coping with the death of a cat, dog or any pet, we suggest visiting the Grief Support Center at RainbowsBridge.com.

After the kids went to sleep and the house was quiet, a small furry four-legged friend would creep toward the living room.

Lizzy was the smallest and most passive of our three pets, therefore, the low animal on the totem pole. She scared easily and spent much of her time in the corner of a windowsill or under beds. The kids’ bedtime was when she would make her grand appearance.

Every night, after I put the last child to bed, I’d collapse on the couch and watch TV. Like clockwork, Lizzy cautiously made her way toward the couch. She would sit at the corner and look up at me, waiting for an invitation. Many times, I pretended not to see her though I’d watch her from the corner of my eye. Sometimes, she would lift her paw and gently nudge my leg. After acknowledging her, I patted the space next to me. Lizzy would jump up into the area and purr as I scratched her head.

Several months ago, Lizzy lost weight. Already a skinny cat, the weight loss was quick and dramatic. I was sick with COVID-19 at the time and couldn’t take her to the vet, so my brother-in-law made the many trips back and forth, relaying the vet’s messages. The vet said several things could be wrong, but diagnosed diabetes. Lizzy was given a new routine of receiving insulin shots in the morning and evening after her meals.

Lizzy belonged to my teenage daughter and she took up the responsibility of giving Lizzy her shots in the evening. I took the morning shift. Every day, I crawled under the bed to fetch Lizzy by sliding her out. While she was in my arms, I made my way into the kitchen while petting her. I readied the insulin shot before I brought her in and would hold her tightly in my arms while injecting her. After petting her some more, she’d run off to find a hiding spot. We did this for a month.

At first, Lizzy responded well. She became stronger and put on a little weight. It thrilled my daughter. And, it thrilled me that my daughter was happy, because she’s had a rough couple of years. Lizzy became her comfort animal as life and circumstances delivered blow after blow.

We buy our cat food at Costco, and as most Costco customers know, a product you’ve enjoyed for years might suddenly vanish. This happened with Lizzy’s food. We bought other food for her, but she didn’t like it. Lizzy was a picky eater. Because she was already underweight and on insulin, and could only receive insulin after eating, her health quickly deteriorated. Once we could order the food she liked, it was too late.

I contacted the vet, but the vet was in surgery that day and couldn’t see any animals. I was told if she needed immediate help to take her to the animal emergency room. When I walked toward Lizzy, she ran and jumped up on the windowsill. I assumed if she was healthy enough to jump that high that we could wait another day for the vet. So, I went on with my busy day. When I came home later that afternoon, it was apparent Lizzy was in horrible shape and needed immediate help.

My daughter wrapped Lizzy up into her favorite blanket and we drove to the animal emergency room. As the vet checked her out, he said frankly, “This cat is dying.” I explained her treatments and her history and asked if there were any way they could help her, but he shook his head. I asked him if we could talk it over and he left the room.

With one hand slowly petting Lizzy, my other hand made circles on my daughter’s back, trying to comfort her. My daughter’s heart was breaking as we looked upon her sick cat. I asked her what she wanted to do, and in a broken and brave voice, my daughter replied, “I don’t want Lizzy to suffer.” And we agreed to put Lizzy to sleep.

I act indifferent about the animals in my house and it probably annoys my family. The truth is, I care about them. While standing in the backroom at the animal emergency room, I was tasked with two important jobs. One, I had to be strong for my daughter and give her the dad she needs. And two, I needed to comfort Lizzy in her last minutes of life. It was a moment that I didn’t predict would be as hard as it was.

We drove home later with my daughter holding an empty blanket. Many tears were shed on the way. After arriving at home, her mom was waiting with open arms and held her close. The next few days were hard as every room shared memories of Lizzy.

After all the kids were asleep and the house was quiet in those next nights, there was no Lizzy to jump into the space next to me on the couch. I had no idea that a pet’s death would affect me as hard as it did. During the more intense moments, I was sad because my daughter was heartbroken about the loss of her kitty. And she was my focus. In the quiet time of the night, I was sad because my moment of Zen included a little purring cat and she was gone.

As the days passed, we moved forward and the other animals in the house, another cat and a dog, showed up in situations that normally would have been Lizzy’s job. It’s as if they knew we were grieving, or maybe they were grieving too. Our pets have an important job that I didn’t realize they held before. They are more than a living plaything, but also a friend and comforter. Something they’ve known all along.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: ©Elvira / Adobe Stock.

How do we remember the family members lost in service to our country on Memorial Day?

This is a question Americans work through every year, and it touches not just veterans, but all Americans.

The modern tradition of Memorial Day as the unofficial start of summer is well-cemented into American culture. Many mark the three-day weekend with barbeques, camping and visits to memorials or cemeteries to honor those we have loved and lost too soon. But is this enough? This question haunts many, especially those who have served and lost a brother or sister in arms. Those survivors often ask themselves, “Why did I come home, and they didn’t?”

And for those who did not serve, the weight of knowing the price others have paid for what they enjoy every day can be heavy at times as well.

But what if Memorial Day is not about paying the ultimate price, but all about family? What if it is about a barbeque? What if it is about camping? What if it’s really about that they didn’t come home so that we could?

Home, as we’ve all heard, is a place where we lay our heads down at night. But home is not just a building, it’s also a feeling. A feeling of peace, a feeling of security, a feeling of love. And what grows in a home is a strong family.

Do you believe a single family can change the world? I do and, as I grow as a dad every day, I learn more and more that what we do and don’t do as a dad matters. And as I watch my family grow each year, I deepen the understanding that on Memorial Day one of the best ways to honor those who have sacrificed their lives for our country is to be a better dad. I remind myself that some weren’t able to come home to finish what they started as a parent; I remind myself that I did, and it’s up to me to create a legacy of family that is worthy of the gift they gave me.

The love a child feels from his dad and the love his dad feels is a special bond. When I think about the kids who never get to feel that love again, it strengthens my determination to be a better father.

To think about the generations of fatherless homes because not all dads came back: this is the cost of war, the paying of the ultimate price.

For the dads who did come home and for those fathers who didn’t serve, we get to feel that love from our family and it is on us to honor that love a kid somewhere in America no longer gets to feel.

What I have come to learn is that connecting with family, strengthening bonds, and adding some adventure to our children’s lives is how we raise good healthy adults who do have the courage to change the world and honor that gift.

Memorial Day is centered around remembering, but this year what if it was about more: more connection, more memories, more adventure and more family.

So maybe a Memorial Day barbeque is a special gathering not just for food but remembering those who helped make the moment possible in their own family tree. Maybe camping outdoors is a chance for you as a father to slow down from life, enjoy the view of what you have created and help your kids explore this big place we call Earth and life.

As you wrestle with the feelings I mentioned at the beginning, anchor yourself within family, anchor yourself with who you have become because of that loss, and anchor yourself in the legacy that is your family.

The best way to honor those who didn’t come home is to create a life worthy of the sacrifice and gift they gave us — the gift of feeling the love of your kids and your kids feeling the love of a father.

What can you do this Memorial Day to honor this gift?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ben Killoy is a U.S. Marine veteran, husband and stay-at-home father to three kids.  He is a speaker, coach and podcaster.

He launched his podcast, Military Veteran Dad, in 2019. As a speaker and coach, he focuses on helping high-performing men with thriving business lives and out-of-balance family lives to get excited about pulling into their driveaway at home again.

Photo: ©toxicoz / Adobe Stock.

I watch my nearly 16-year-old twin sons and their three- or four-hundred fellow students pour out the doors of the high school they attend. My mind goes back to my own high school days a very long time ago.

A lot is different. No backpacks back then or phones or cool sweatshirts or yoga pants or these damn masks, but much seems familiar. The laughing and flirting and cajoling and teasing; nice cars and beaters; happy kids, sullen kids. Couples holding hands, couples longing to hold hands. Kids with big instrument cases and large art portfolios and dangling lunch boxes and the like.

Sometimes, a teacher or the principal is outside wishing them well whether the students want well-wishing or not. It is one of those teachers that sends my mind back to my own school days in rural Ohio.

Mr. Funk (name changed, because, well, you know — unless I didn’t because Funk is such a great name) was our high school’s head football coach. He also taught, poorly, algebra or something. He always had an unlit cheap cigar in his mouth, using it more as a tobacco plug than something to be smoked. He was a better coach than he was a teacher. I liked him. He cussed better than anyone I’d met up until that point.

Many years after I left those halcyon halls, I attended a reunion and a few of the teachers were there. Mr. Funk and I got to talking. He recalled me quitting the varsity football team my senior year because I couldn’t be on the team and in the fall production of Our Town (in which I been cast as The Stage Manager, a choice role).

He said to me at the time, “Gimme one good goddamned reason why you want to do that the-A-ter crap and not play football for me this fall.” My answer, “There are girls there.” That pretty much shut him up. He turned away and slammed his office door.

He revealed to me at the reunion that he didn’t turn in anger. He thought my response  was very funny and didn’t want to laugh in front of me. “That was the best goddamned reason you could have given me,” he admitted.

He revealed something else that evening: that he was a veteran of World War II. He’d been a gunner in a tank company that fought across Europe and was a major factor in the Battle of the Bulge. In fact, he told me, many of my teachers, both men and women, were veterans.

I was gobsmacked. It simply hadn’t occurred to me. Mrs. Smith had flown bombers to England, Mr. Sharp was a Navy gunner, and so on. I had no idea.

I asked him why we never knew that. Mr. Funk said they were just doing their job, and, importantly, that they were all just civilians now, plain ol’ citizens.

As I watch those students streaming out the double doors today, I am struck with that notion: What I am looking at are citizens. What I am seeing are almost adults “doing their job” participating in a nation, parts of a grand scheme — as we all are. I know I am looking at engineers and designers, scientists and mechanics, doctors and teachers, lawyers and cooks, military personnel and carpenters — citizens all.

I hear the word “heroes” a lot these days, to the point where it almost devalues the word. It seems everyone is a hero. You know the list: front-line health care workers, grocery clerks, delivery drivers, law enforcement men and women, parents and so many more. But here’s the thing. I believe most of those folks would echo Mr. Funk. They are just doing their job.

And that, friends, is what I see every weekday as I wait in that lot. Citizens doing their job. These young men and women, and so many like them, go to school or work from home, and they get the job — the job that we expect of them as citizens — done. All this quarantining, the masking, the canceled shows and performances, the tournaments unattended, the first-grade art show and middle-school recorder recitals gone, for now, all of these things that make a school year a bit more tolerable are currently unavailable. And yet they, if you will, soldier on.

I am, sadly, aware of the struggles many children and young adults suffer these days. I know teen suicide rates are up as are eating disorders and dropout rates. Self-mutilation is on the rise. Depression and anxiety are affecting more kids than at any other time in the past. I know parents are facing incredible difficulties as well. Frankly, the whole situation sucks. I probably could have opened with this paragraph and painted a terribly tragic picture of the state of education in this pandemic age.

But, you know what, I deal in hope, and I have plenty of it. When we do what is asked of us as a citizenry — masking, hand washing, distancing and showing compassion to others — we win wars. We solve complex social problems. We feed the hungry. And, we beat pandemics. We harbor hope.

I’ve read more than one article about our kids in schools that elevates them to the status of heroes. I guess you could say that. But most heroes don’t feel they are that. Most feel they are just doing their job.

Finally, I’ll add this. When we get through this national crisis — and we will — we are going to have a crop of hardworking, problem solving, resilient young adults ready to take on the world. Citizens all, they will be ready to help this great country move forward in hope and compassion, in duty and honor. I see them every day. They’re great kids. They are our future and our greatest hope.

About the author

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Photo: ©ASDF / Adobe Stock.