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.

Editor’s Note: City Dads Group blog contributor Gidon Ben-Zvi, a resident of Jerusalem, asked us to reprint this piece he originally wrote for The Algemeiner. “I think your readership would benefit from gaining a glimpse into the lives of average Israeli parents coping with difficult questions as war descends upon them,” he wrote in his note. We agree.

Teaching Your Children About War: An Israeli Father Struggles to Get It Right

It’s 3:36 a.m., on Tuesday, Oct. 10, 2023. I’m tossing and turning right now. Our little country is in a fight for its life. Yes, we’ll prevail. But the cost will be terribly high, almost unbearable.

We keep hearing fighter planes as they jet south. The Lebanon-based Iranian proxy, Hezbollah, is saber rattling. They have launched a couple of dozen rockets into northern Israel. In a skirmish just inside the Israeli border with Lebanon, three Israeli Defense Forces soldiers were killed in a battle with Palestinian Islamic Jihad terrorists.

The Israeli Air Force has started to hit terrorist targets in Lebanon and Syria, and is increasing its bombing runs over Gaza.

My wife and I continue to work, or at least go through the motions, at home. Our children are home as well since all schools have been closed since the Hamas invasion began.

To maintain some semblance of sanity, my wife and I continue to get in our morning jogs. In our neighborhood, folks continue to walk along the Louis Promenade, buses continue to run on Hanassi Boulevard, and street cleaners make their daily rounds. But people’s faces have gone pale, and no one seems to stay out for long.

For the sake of our children, we’re fighting not to be overcome with grief. To keep our children feeling safe, we’re trying our level best to explain what this war’s about. We tell them it’s OK to be nervous and scared. Yes, Hamas is out there. We remind them, however, that the fighter planes — and all those soldiers down south — will protect our little family and all of Israel’s families.

It’s a fine line, acknowledging to your kids the sheer evil that has been perpetrated while encouraging them to try and live through this longest, darkest of days with a sense of hope.

A good father’s job is to be a role model, to establish a set of values for his children to live their lives by. What values am I imparting to my kids right now? What lessons am I trying to teach them to make some kind of sense out of the greatest national tragedy to befall the Jewish people since the Holocaust? How on earth can the murder of babies, entire families, young people, and the rape of women be turned into a teachable moment?

To the best of my ability, I’ve been trying to teach my kids that the big life comes at a big price.

I left a different kind of life in the United States. Had I stayed, I eventually would have started to earn well, saved up some money, padded my 401(k), and become a homeowner — no doubt moving to a well-manicured, secure suburb.

Maybe I should have stayed in Los Angeles.

On second thought, there’s no place else I’d rather be. In life, there are observers and participants. I chose to throw my lot in with the latter, come what may.

Why? Well, this is part of what I try to convey to my young children: you only get one shot at this thing called life. So why not live it gloriously? A life with a sense of mission, a sense of purpose, and — most importantly — joy.

We Jews have managed to create a free society that promotes human dignity and thriving out of malaria-infested swamps. In a part of the world widely mired in ignorance, intolerance, and persecution, Israel shines bright as a beacon of hope, an outpost of enlightenment, a country where all its citizens are limited only by their innate talent and ambition.

When my wife told our neighbor living in the new apartment next to ours that we have no built-in safe room since our building was constructed pre-1990s, she opened her home to our family.

“Come to our place whenever you need to. We’re all in the same boat.”

Our neighbor is an educated, successful, warm-hearted, Muslim woman.

The lesson I’m trying to teach our four little children is that what you believe in is worth fighting for. Israel is worth fighting for. All we can do in response to the savagery is fight the good fight, emboldened by the knowledge that — ultimately — right makes might.

Originally published Oct. 13, 2023, on The Algemeiner. Photo: © altanaka / Adobe Stock.

About the author

Gidon Ben-Zvi left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Editor’s Note: If you are having a mental health crisis, call or text 988 to get in touch with the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

I’m a big fan of the 2000s TV show Gilmore Girls, a show about as manly as the title suggests. It follows a single mother and her daughter living in a small Connecticut town. In this town, there is a diner owner named Luke, a surly guy who seems angry about everything and annoyed by everyone. We eventually learn he is a big softy. His gruff outer demeanor is a façade to protect himself from a world constantly threatening to hurt him. Basically, he’s my spirit animal.

In the Gilmore Girls episode, “But Not as Cute as Pushkin” (season 5, episode 10), Luke has a “dark day.” Once a year, Luke disappears. He flees town. He is cryptic as to why he behaves this way. No one knows where he goes, but everyone in town knows about Luke’s Dark Day (except his girlfriend, which is ridiculous, but never mind). This is an accepted part of Luke’s existence. Without dropping any spoilers (18 years later), Luke uses this day to go off and feel his feelings.

Recently, without me being fully aware of what was happening, my well-managed (or ignored?) feelings had begun to break free from my toxically masculine bulwark of denial. The week prior, I had slowly become a bit of an asshole. Everything made me grumpy. I was short with everyone. I had no patience for my children, and as a stay-at-home dad, I let my daily chores slip. The house was a mess, our diet was garbage, and everything was off.

All because I was resisting my own Dark Day.

Death, aging leads to depression

I know the main source of my emotional descent. About a year ago, my brother died. My relationship with him was complicated. His passing, while not shocking, hit me far harder than I had anticipated. As the anniversary of his death approached, those feelings came back. All the good. All the bad. I thought I was finished with the pain and trauma, but grief is an insatiable ambush predator.

A few months before the anniversary of my brother’s passing, I visited my parents. They both have serious health issues and live in a nursing home several states away. My dad’s mind is slipping away. Talking with him was tricky, and the view of his diminished body was particularly traumatic. My mom’s mind remains sharp, but she can no longer walk and has lost use of most of her limbs. The nursing home, while seemingly filled with nice people, is gloomy and old. The environment is sad, and so is seeing my parents in that place, but with their increasingly complicated medical requirements, there’s not much else we can do.

After I had spent the day with my parents, my wife asked how I was doing.

I replied earnestly and honestly, “I can’t really deal with it right now. I’ll feel my feelings when we get home.” We were in the middle of a family vacation, and I couldn’t really afford an emotional breakdown. I genuinely had every intention of dealing with the feelings when I got home. I’d cry it out in the shower. That’s what we all do, right?

I could list all the things that happened when we got home. All the excuses to keep avoiding my feelings. I promise I had some good ones. In fact, I deleted a very self-indulgent list from my rough draft. But the reasons don’t matter. I have mine. Other dads will have theirs. There’s always an excuse. Instead, I let my depression and darkness seep out slowly and cloud our home for weeks.

Healthy, right?

When the fire passes, healing begins

Look, I’m not here as a writer because I have all the answers. I’m here because I’m willing to admit I’ve screwed up.

I should have gone from my parents’ place back to the hotel and told my wife I needed 20 minutes. Then, I could have collapsed on the shower floor and had a good cry. I would’ve felt better (secretly I don’t feel I deserve to feel better, but that’s a whole other story). I would’ve saved myself weeks of inner turmoil and spared my family weeks of torture.

It’s true most men want to be seen as strong. Emotions make us feel weak, but it’s weak to pretend to be strong when you’re not. It’s weak to hide from your feelings. If you need your Dark Day, go off and have a Dark Day. Have the strength to face your emotions. Let the emotional fires consume you, knowing that when the fire passes, healing begins.

Everyone reading this has something they aren’t dealing with. I’m the hypocrite typing this with a truckload of my own baggage, but I’ve been making a very real effort to feel the feelings when I need to feel them. I’d encourage you to do the same. Yeah, it sucks, but you’ll feel better, and it’s a really great way to justify an excessively long, hot shower.

Feel the feelings photo: © altanaka / 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.

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

My cat is dead.

It’s no big deal. Just a shelter cat some woman I didn’t know bought for a 5-year-old I didn’t know. I’m married to that woman now, and that 5-year-old now is in high school, and my stepson.

The cat, Xander, came before my marriage. Xander was there before any of my three children were born. He had moved across the country a couple of times. He dropped poop in inconvenient places, and despite living in homes with solid flooring surfaces, he always found a few strips of carpet to drop a hairball. Xander was way too patient with my kids. His gentle demeanor created some very unrealistic expectations within my children regarding how the average cat responds to being violently accosted.

When we received Xander’s terminal diagnosis, I was a stoic: “Well, we gotta put ’em down. It’s the right thing.” I felt good about our decision. The vet came to our home to usher our warrior feline to the great hunting fields in the sky.

Then, when she announced Xander was dead, I became overwhelmed with grief.

Pet’s death comes in different forms

My wife had insisted on including the children during Xander’s euthanizing. I didn’t push back, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision. Perhaps I didn’t want to face the inevitably difficult “afterlife” questions that would follow. Your religious beliefs aside, no one knows exactly what happens after death, and I wanted to keep that from my children for as long as possible.

But it’s common for my wife to have more faith in my children than I do. I’m not proud of that. In many ways, it brings a healthy balance to our relationship. And, in moments like this, I marvel at her wisdom.

So the entire family gathered for that moment Xander fell asleep, and then slowly passed. My 3-year-old was confused. She was sure the vet was there to make Xander better. Her pleas for Xander to wake up sent me fleeing to another room.

That emotional response to our pet’s death from my youngest daughter made the whole thing more painful for me. On the other hand, the complete lack of emotions from my other two kids made me wonder if I’m raising future serial killers who may star in their own Netflix documentary.

My son, who is 5, was cuddly, quiet, and deeply introspective, but mostly seemed unphased by watching our cat die. My daughter, at 7 going on 30, seemed to delight in not having any emotions at all. She kept checking to see if I was crying and behaved as if she was winning the “I’m not crying” competition. When we had her play the flute after we lowered Xander’s lifeless body into his backyard grave, she behaved as if it was a fun curiosity, not a sad ceremony. As Hurricane Ian’s first angry clouds swirled above (it had been a stressful week), my son solemnly tossed flowers over Xander’s body. He did so respectfully, but my daughter was laughing and joking, definitely not taking it seriously.

Hard lessons at a young age

I wanted to get mad. I wanted to force them to feel what I felt. For some reason, I felt it was my duty to make them conform to my idea of what mourning should look like, but I possessed just enough wisdom to let it go.

It took a couple of days, but eventually, my eldest daughter broke down. She confessed she was sad she hadn’t spent more time with Xander before he died. That’s when she began making really sweet drawings and artwork devoted to the cat. She had found her feelings, and she had found a way to mourn.

As parents, sometimes we feel pressure to act. We feel we need to be correcting, teaching, or guiding. But parenting, as in life, is all about balance. There’s a time to push our kids, and a time to let them alone. There’s a time to be a strong hand of guidance, but sometimes distance and time is the answer. None of us will get it right all the time, but it’s important we remember to work toward balance. It’s crucial we never forget our children are people, and people are wildly complicated. Kids are just tiny humans with all the big feelings you and I feel, and they are just learning how to deal with it. If we’re honest, how great are us adults with our feelings?

Ultimately, having the children be a part of Xander’s death was the right decision for us. The children fully understand he is gone and never coming back. They each dealt with his passing in their own way, and it feels good not deceiving them along the way. No story about a farm. No mysterious disappearance. They faced it like champs, and they matured a little along the way. What more can we ask of our kids?

Me? Well, I’m grumpy about being the saddest of the lot. I should be writing about something else, but this is all I can think about. I’m grateful for the opportunity to see my children grow and continue to impress me, but it did come at a high cost – now they want more pets.

I shall end with a final thought I feel Xander, the mighty feline warrior, killer of lizards, slayer of frogs, would appreciate: Cats rule and dogs drool.

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.

“What would you like for a Christmas present?”

It was a simple question, sitting in a text message, timestamped and marked as read.

I didn’t have a simple answer.

Peace on Earth would be nice, but I would settle for a government that cares for its people.

Cures to everything: disease, hunger and otherwise? That would be a Christmas miracle.

Financial security might help me sleep at night, but a job would do me wonders.

“Nothing,” I replied, because those are the things I would like forever.

+  +  +

I was in middle school when my mother’s parents died, both in the same year. I came home one day, bus-scented and gangly with cowlicks in my hair, to find my mom mascara-smudged in the kitchen. Then four months later we did it again, but with the added benefit of practice.

My parents divorced a couple of years later.

Still, the holidays persisted.

Even as an adult, as life continues to twist our stories, dropping obstacles like so many pine needles, we move forward, one calendar page at a time, each blurring with the next until we go full circle, another December and the motions that we go through.

We have always found ways to make the holidays matter, despite years of grief from losing far too many, or perhaps because of it.

And yet, if there was a Venn diagram of Christmas ghosts, this year would be the overlap. We all have our own tales of life gone past, and our thoughts about the future, but the present? Now is not a gift to anyone. Who among us hasn’t wondered the point of wrapping paper under a fake tree when we live in a world where presidents endorse child molesters, war is on the brink and every third man is a monster?

This is Christmas Present in the Upside Down, and all the lights are flashing.

But it’s not too late. We can’t, despite a lack of solace in the solstice, turn our backs on hope, especially during the holidays. In fact, this may be the year we need the holiday season most of all.

Hope is a spark and a flicker, a beacon of warmth against the long, cold night. It may seem in short supply this year, but all we have to do is look to our children to help us find it. Kids shine with hope, brightly, in dreams of Santa and the laughter of friendship. They wear it like a smile and spread it like petals and sunshine. Relatively speaking, they have more past to look forward to, and they use their hope to light the way. They are our candles in the window and bonfires in the distance. Their hope is a thing to be nurtured and cherished, but also inspiration and a constant reminder of it.

It is Christmas Present, here and now, and it will be again. Along the way our stories will twist and we’ll face the things we wish for and some we wish we wouldn’t. There will be loss and obstacles, questions, joy and darkness. Things will end while others are just beginning. Everything will change, repeatedly. Carry hope, heedless of the season, and it will be the gift that we are giving.

+  +  +

The text chimed with the reply, like a bell sending tidings from the season.

“Okay,” was sent in a bright, blue bubble. Then there were three little dots beneath it.

“Then tell me what you need,” it said, and from there the bells kept ringing.

Christmas present photo: Denise Johnson/Unsplash.

“Tracheal collapse.”

That was the veterinarian’s foreboding diagnosis of our beloved family pet Benny, a Yorkie, two years ago. He was 3 years old at the time and had been having episodes of labored breathing. Through a series of vet visits, we learned that Yorkies often suffer from the slow tightening of their tracheas. If it escalates, they actually make a honking sound.

We had been able to manage Benny’s trachea until one night this past August when his honking returned with great intensity. My wife and I feared the worst as our two daughters slept. We gave Benny his meds and tried to calm him, but by 4 a.m. I couldn’t take it anymore and drove him to an emergency veterinary clinic.

I remember that drive well because of Benny’s strikingly normal behavior. Though exhausted and panting, he continued to go through the motions — albeit more slowly — of what he always did during car rides. He ignored my pleas to calm down and sit, he walked back and forth across my lap to look out the windows, and he nervously peed and pooped all over me. As I witnessed his slow-motion routines, I thought: “He doesn’t realize he’s dying.”

The emergency vet sedated Benny at 5 a.m. but by 1 p.m. I ended up taking him to a surgical hospital for animals. The specialist there said a tracheal stent might give Benny several more years of health, though it would be risky. Fearing the loss of our dog at the young age of 5, we ordered the surgery.

____

While humans make much of the youth-to-old-age cycle of life, a family pet teaches us how to revel in the present, rather than dwell on regret or the sting of lost potential.
___

During my wait at the surgery center, I noticed various nooks of the large waiting room designed for anxious families. Kleenex boxes peppered the scene, which told me things might get much grimmer very soon. On a lighter note, when I commiserated with a woman about the high cost of our dogs’ surgeries, she justified the expense with a gender-role reversal: “I just can’t stand to see my husband keep crying.”

Alas, the surgery helped Benny, but two months later the torturous gasping for air returned. We had exhausted the medical options; it was time to ease him into his final sleep.

We felt terrible. When a family pet dies young, it feels unjust. My youngest daughter spoke for all of us when she whispered through her tears: “I don’t want him to go.”

But we did feel good about ending his suffering. And I took some solace in that vision from the car ride with Benny. It showed me that while his early death was traumatic for our family, Benny himself never seemed aware of his impending doom. While humans make much of the youth-to-old-age cycle of life, the family pet just seems to live their right in front of us. They teach us how to revel in the present, rather than dwell on regret or the sting of lost potential.

As a former English professor, I also find solace in literary quotations during hard times such as when a family pet dies. For example, any early death calls to my mind the famous epitaph of British poet John Keats, who died of tuberculosis at 25. Aware that he was dying young, Keats requested his tombstone read “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

Another of my favorite quotations is from Virgil’s Georgics: “Optima dies … prima fugit,” a Latin phrase meaning “the best days … are the first to flee.” This phrase captures the honeymoon quality of all those sublime “firsts” in our families’ lives that pass by too fast — the first steps and words we experience with our babies, but also the memories of when our pets were puppies, kittens, etc. Ironically, because adult Benny weighed only seven pounds, I called him our “permanent puppy.” In that sense, he extended the life of those “best days” for our family.

Finally, I also take solace in a familiar quote I heard most recently at an eighth-grade graduation. While students were lamenting the end of their middle school years, a classmate reminded them of Dr. Seuss’s helpful formulation: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

Amen. Now please go give your pet an extra squeeze in honor of Benny.