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.

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.

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.

Take this short quiz and try to figure out if the scenarios mentioned happened to my puppy or one to of my kids, when he/she was a toddler. After the completion of this quiz, you will have a better understanding of what day-to-day life is like at my house.

1. Was it my puppy or my toddler who threw up on a road trip?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The correct answer is C. Most recently, our puppy left a tidy little pile of vomit in her puppy crate on her first long car trip. And, a few years before that, on a trip to grandma’s, our daughter had an epic projectile vomiting session all over the back seat.

2. Was it my puppy or my toddler who has previously eaten poop?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The correct answer is C. While it may be no surprise my puppy has eaten the feces of geese, cats, other dogs and likely her own, you may be surprised to learn one of my kids has eaten it as well. A few years back, my kids were playing with a friend’s daughter. She was going through a phase of taking off her own diapers and flinging them (and their contents) across the room. I wasn’t paying attention to what the kids were doing for a few minutes and the next thing I knew, it looked like my kid had just eaten a plate full of brownies. That was not a good day.

3. Was it my puppy or my toddler who regularly peed outdoors?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The correct answer is C. Are you seeing a pattern here yet? While our puppy only pees outside about 50% of the time (the other 50% being indoor accidents), if we’re in our backyard swimming, my daughter “goes behind the bushes” 100% of the time. Better than in the pool, I guess.

4. Was it my puppy or my toddler who ate food out of the trash can?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

Again, the correct answer is C. Once or twice, the puppy snagged a piece of garbage from the trash can and dragged it around the house, chewing on whatever food scrap or Kleenex she rescued. Also, my son was once found elbows deep in our kitchen trash can, enjoying the remains of his big sister’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I guess that’s one way to find out your kid isn’t allergic to nuts.

5. Was it my puppy or my toddler who slept at least one night in my bed?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

Until recently, I would’ve said the answer was B, but come to find out the answer is actually C. While our kids have all slept in our bed, I didn’t find out the puppy slept there until I got back from a trip out of town. I asked my wife why she let the puppy sleep on my side of the bed, she said that wasn’t where just one puppy slept, it was where both our dogs slept. Good grief.

6. Was it my puppy or my toddler who attended school?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

You guessed it, the correct answer is C. Our toddlers have always managed at least one day of preschool, and without fail, no matter how bad their behavior was at home, every preschool teacher said they were perfect while in class. Puppy school is part of our routine as well. We spend an hour each week watching our puppy act like an angel for her dog trainer, then go right back into “devil dog” mode when she gets home.

7. Was it my puppy or my toddler who bit my wife and was bitten back by her?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

Without getting into too much detail, the correct answer is C. Let’s just say there’s no longer any biting at our house.

8. Was it my puppy or my toddler who had bedtime stories read to them?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The final answer on the quiz is … B. C’mon, you didn’t really think we’d read to our dog, did you?

If you got a perfect score on the quiz, you likely live a life similar to mine, and for that I take pity on the chaos you endure on a daily basis.

A version of this first appeared on Indy’s Child. Photo: ©nuzza11 / Adobe Stock.

Several years ago, we had a cat. He was sleek, moved effortlessly, and annoyed us to no end. In fact, when we moved from a townhouse to our current suburban home, we attempted to turn him into a part-time outdoor cat. Since he was always trying to escape from our old place, this seemed like a smart move.

It didn’t turn out quite as we’d anticipated.

My wife and I didn’t have much experience with cats, but apparently they like to bring “presents” to their owners. These presents were typically alive, but only barely. Or they were recently deceased, which was somewhat better relatively speaking, but not by much. Having a consistent stream of half-dead squirrels and assorted rodents deposited on your back porch is quite gruesome. Fully dead is also bad, but if you must choose, it’s the better option. Of course, you really want neither.

So every time our cat left his calling card, I crossed my fingers that it was fully dead. Then I could get on with the disposal. Before I had kids, this whole situation would have grossed me out to no end. But since I was a grizzled veteran of two children, who were around ages 1 and 3 at the time, I had experienced things. I had seen, smelled and been drenched by all sorts of bodily fluids and excretions. Thus, I was comfortable enough with grossness that a mangled squirrel wasn’t quite so bad. In fact, my main concern was disposing the squirrel before my 3-year-old saw it. He was very sensitive, and I knew the sight of a dead little animal would be traumatic for him.

When our cat did drop off a gruesome gift, I’d usually find it early in the morning while I was letting our dogs out. I would grab my shovel, scoop up the glob of fur and guts, and quickly bury it in the backyard. It was a task I dreaded. Turning our backyard into a squirrel graveyard wasn’t one of my life goals, but I put my head down and did the dirty work. That’s what parents do. We learn to put our child’s needs before our own.

It starts with those first sleepless nights with a newborn. At first, it feels completely weird. Like you’re groping around in the dark trying to find something, but you’re not sure what exactly you’re searching for. Suddenly your primary concern isn’t whether you sleep or eat regularly, but that this new little person does. As the months and years go by, this new arrangement starts to feel normal; you feel like this is the way life has always been. But, when you take a step back, it can be hard to wrap your head around. What did I do with my time before all this? Did I really sleep eight hours and eat three meals most days? What did I do on weekends before there were red-ball tennis lessons and tiny tot soccer games? Yes, things have certainly changed. Your life isn’t just yours anymore, it also belongs to someone else.

With this recognition of a shared existence comes a fierce protectiveness that is almost indescribable. It’s visceral and anxiety-inducing and all-consuming. It is forged in the fire of those early, muddled days and nights and only grows and expands with time. In the beginning, the overriding drive is to provide physical protection. To hold this new being as close as possible. To shelter it with your own fragility. Later, as that little person grows, it only becomes more complicated. Now you must worry about the psychological and not just the physical. As they pull away, you struggle to pull them back. Paddling against the relentless current of time to protect them from disappointment and trauma. Of course, you’re not only protecting them. If you’re being honest, you’re protecting yourself, too.

Life is hard and heartbreaking. As an adult, you understand this more every day. You want nothing more than to shield your child from these harsh realities as long as possible. To let them revel in blissful innocence while it lasts. When they walk close to the edge, when they start to ask difficult questions, sometimes you give encouraging, simplistic answers that you don’t necessarily believe. “Yes, buddy, we’ll all be together again one day, even after we’re gone.” You feel that if you can convince them, maybe you can convince yourself. By wrapping them in your fragility, maybe you can make yourself feel less fragile.

So it is that I found myself collecting the carcasses of small rodents from my porch and depositing them in the earth. As a scrape and shovel and dig and try not to look too closely at the crime scene, I think about how soon enough my child will learn more about death and despair and how unfair and painful life can be, but it doesn’t have to be this morning. I can put it off. I can save him this much, at least. As long as I shovel quickly enough. Hurry.

Photo by Lukas from Pexels

Consider this an early Father’s Day tribute to my dad. Put it in the category of “Things I Did When I Was a Kid That My Own Kid BETTER Not Do.”

When I was 12, I had a manageable chore list. Nothing extensive or unreasonable, although at the time I’m sure I thought I was doing the equivalent of those orphans in the Industrial Revolution who worked in a sooty, life-endangering factory for 14 hours at a stretch.

I was responsible for washing the dinner dishes. Vacuuming the living room. Cleaning my room and bathroom.

Scooping dog poop from the backyard.

That was the one. That was the chore I dreaded.

I loved our dog, a mop-headed cocker spaniel-poodle mix named Sophie. But I was bewildered at how a dog the size of a toaster could put out 50 pounds of crap a day.

And I absolutely hated being the one who had to pick it up.

Have dog, will scoop poop

My dad had a very specific rule about clearing dog poop: it had to be done every seven days. No one likes walking around the backyard, he said, feeling lush, velvety grass under their bare feet, and then experiencing a crunch-then-squoosh between their toes.

I understood that. And, since Sophie was my dog, all canine maintenance duties fell to me. Feeding, walking, and generally snuggling (all of which I was happy to do). But the biggest part of the gig was poop scooping.

I don’t even know why I hated doing it that much. I had a nice, wide plastic shovel and plenty of paper lunch bags. It didn’t take much skill to walk in a careful grid, spot the poop, lean down, scoop up the nuggets, and drop them in a bag. You could clear the yard of turd bombs in less than 20 minutes. No big deal.

But I still hated it.

Every Saturday morning, I would conveniently forget the job I had to do outside. I’d hunker down in my room, happily listening to music and reading comics, and then my dad would call to me.

“Seth, it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Son, please go outside and do your job.”

“What job?”

Selective Amnesia, I believe, is the correct term for my affliction.

“GO OUTSIDE AND SCOOP THE POOP.”

“OK, OK! God, you don’t have to yell.”

I would drag myself out of my room, get my tools (scooper, paper bags, heavy crown of martyrdom), and go outside to grumble my way through filling God knows how many bags with Sophie’s prolific output. Typically, that 20-minute job turned into three hours of oppressed servitude.

And then, one morning, I discovered a way to make the job way more fun.

The incident

Let me switch perspectives now, and talk of this particular Saturday from my father’s point of view:

I remember that my son Seth did not enjoy this particular chore when he was young. However, it remains a mystery to me why,  for years, the boy would rather spend two hours complaining than the 10 minutes it took to simply do it. 

On the Saturday in question, I did request that my son rise, get dressed, get the scooper, and clear the yard of our dog’s droppings. As was his fashion, he complained and procrastinated to an impressive degree, but after the whining was completed, he did go outside, scooper and bag in hand, albeit begrudgingly. I went upstairs to my office to do some work where, as it happened, I also happened to have a view of our back yard.

After a few minutes,  I glanced out the window to check on Seth’s progress. My mouth dropped open.

I was, in short, completely flabbergasted by what I was seeing.

I called to my wife: “Robin, you have to come in here.”

“What?”

“You need to come in here.”

“Why?”

“You need to come in here and look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“Just … you have to see what your son is doing.”

She joined me at the window and suddenly her expression matched mine as we watched in disbelief at what our son, our flesh and blood offspring, was doing.

“Oh, my Lord. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” she said.

“He is.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“Oh, my Lord. He’s about to do it again.”

“There he goes.”

“OH. MY. LORD.”

My turn again. So, out in the yard, I had no idea my parents were watching me, first in shock, then in anger, then with uncontrollable laughter.

Why were they laughing? Because rather than simply scooping and dropping poop into a bag, I was instead aiming my plastic shovel skyward, drawing back, and flinging the shit over the fence.

Into our neighbor’s yard.

I. WAS FLINGING DOG SHIT. INTO OUR NEIGHBOR’S YARD.

On Saturday morning. In broad daylight.

Unaware my parents were staring from the upstairs window, I continued to wing big ol’ nuggets over the fence, emptying our yard, and filling our neighbors. (The neighbors, by the way, had no dog.)

I developed a variety of techniques. I named them.

The Whiplash.

The Catapult.

The Over the Shoulder.

The Up, Up, and Away.

The Shit Bullet.

With each new toss, my technique gained more artistry. I gave each throw a wind-up, sometimes a leap and spin before a flick of my wrist sent the poop skyward, arcing gracefully in the sky and over the fence.

I was enjoying myself immensely.

I began wishing there was an Olympic event for this. Competitive Poop Throwing.

It hits the fan

Meanwhile, my parents continued to watch, equally shocked and entertained, crying with laughter as they saw me perfect my new talent. After a few minutes, they realized what I didn’t: at some point, our neighbors on the other side of the fence were likely to emerge from their own back door, hoping to enjoy their morning coffee on their patio, and instead get smacked in the face by flying dog shit.

Mom and Dad collected themselves, wiping away the tears of laughter, put on their Angry Parent faces, and opened the window, making me freeze in mid-throw:

“SETH ANDREW TAYLOR, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?!”

And with that, I was completely and fully busted, my future Olympic career ending before it began.

I don’t really remember the repercussions. I recall being yelled at. (I didn’t know how hard they’d been laughing from inside until years later when they started telling the story to friends, relatives, girlfriends, and basically anybody in town who knew me.) I have a vague memory of being forced to scale our back fence and retrieve all the poop I had sent over. It took forever (there was a lot), and I did so afraid that the neighbors would see me, come out and ask exactly what was going on.

Decades later, my dad still tells this story, and he does so with dramatic flair (despite the fact that his son is now a 46-year-old grown damn man, thank you very much). He relishes every detail, right down to the look on my face when he yelled out the window and I whirled around, instantly knowing I’d been caught doing something — well, just downright gross.

He particularly loves telling this story to my daughter, who never grows tired of hearing it. It’s their tradition. It’s their very own “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” (Gather round, kids, it’s time for the story of the Boy Who Sent Poop To The Sky!) Even now, at 15, she laughs hysterically when he spins the tale. The two of them, along with my mom, fall to pieces every time, laugh/crying like idiots. Every. Damn. Time.

As for me, I just sit and listen, remembering, and feeling grateful that my daughter doesn’t have a dog.

It is dark, and all of her world is asleep. She knows there are rules, and also that she is breaking them. It is all part of the thrill. She is stealthy, and no one will ever suspect a thing.

Valentine is 15 years old, according to the calendar, 105 when you factor for the canine. She was a gift to my wife on Valentine’s Day that many years ago. I had found her sitting alone, a small puppy in a big cage. She fit warmly in the palm of my hand as a teary-eyed woman thanked me for saving a dog’s life the day before it was scheduled to end. Valentine, to her credit, has made the most of it. Her entire life has been an expression in contrast: sweet and attentive as the day requires, a moveable feast of trash cans and cat food, and the hunting of stuffed animals throughout the wasteland of the boys’ room as soon as the lights go out.

Granted, neither provide the rush she used to know. Such things are a young dog’s game. Her lot is now left to the night kitchen, an uncovered recycling bin and the bag of pretzels forgotten on the table.

It is dark. She is steady and she is sneaky, a ninja on four paws. The night is hers for the taking.

I am awake in a moment, jarred upright by the sound of thunder in the hallway. It is the echo of can on hardwood, unsated cravings rummaging through a paper bag for the hint of bean or cheese or the aforementioned cat food. A bottle clinks against another, and still she digs all the deeper.

About two years ago, when we first realized Valentine had lost her hearing, we were afraid it would affect her quality of life. Initially, it did. For instance, she no longer stopped on a dime and ran the length of a field to wag at our side should someone but speak her name. Instead, she embraced the new freedom we had apparently allotted her. Finally, she assumed, they trust me to run along forever. Rather than cower from the challenge, the literal new trick for an old dog, she owned it. In fact, we wondered if she even knew.

That is what I wonder at midnight. My eyes are open in the blackness, and Valentine making all the noise of a toddler trying not to. She is enjoying this, I smile to myself. She thinks herself so damn clever.

There was a time, once, when I would have jumped out of bed, bent on putting a stop to it. However, I am riddled with the regrets of another old dog. That one died in my arms after 16 years of growing in them, my children stretching long upon her side, tufts of fur by the handful never pulling on her patience. She never knew anything but loving us. But one day, right before the last, I scolded her far too severely for my foot finding the fruits of her incontinence. And yet she sought me out when it was her time to pass, me crying in the green grass, whispering a plea of forgiveness into the soft give of her even as her eyes clouded over.

Valentine is almost there. Her ears were the first to go. Then her body filled with large lumps of cancer. Now, unbeknownst to her, she also leaves a trail of memories behind — a tangible pathway of unstepping stones atop the planks beneath her.

The boys know, and they don’t want to talk about it. They have known far too much loss in their short lives — my old dog, four cats, the neighbor’s peacocks that they obligatorily cared for, and countless fish. And those are just the animals. They have also lost two great-grandparents, two grandparents and two just as close. My children have loved, lost and know which is better. They have outgrown suits bought just for funerals, and they understand the things I wish they didn’t.

Perhaps Valentine is keenly aware, or, hopefully, joyfully oblivious. Maybe she is making the most of it.

And so I stay in bed, knowing a messy floor is a small price to pay for the happiness she has brought our family. As far as I’m concerned, she can burrow through the trash until the damn sun comes up, and endless mornings after. It’s the least we can do, and I don’t care what I step in.

“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.

Do you have a poster of your family dog?

I was asked this unlikely question a while ago by an even more unlikely source: my children’s piano teacher. Let me explain.

My two daughters have been taking piano lessons from Susan, a very kind and talented musician, for several years. During this period, Susan has become smitten with our family dog, a Yorkshire Terrier named Benny, in part because he scampers through our kitchen with glee every time she arrives. I realized Susan was love-bitten the day she earnestly implored my wife and me to consider moving to California so handsome Benny could be discovered by Hollywood and placed into commercials immediately. (My similarly smitten wife says Benny looks like Brad Pitt, but that is another story.)

One day, Susan revealed that her love of Benny had inspired her to compose an original piece of music in his honor. In fact, she insisted that my youngest daughter add the song to her repertoire for an upcoming piano recital.

To a canine tolerator like me, the passion my daughter’s piano teacher expressed toward our family dog was sweet but also bizarre, since dogs — or any pets, for that matter — have never made music in my mind.

The song is titled “Benjamin O,” and in the recital program Susan listed it as a “World Premiere” performance. She also explained it was written for my daughter “to showcase her prodigious gifts of coordination and her love of fast tempos.” (To me, this was Susan’s nice way of describing my daughter’s impatience with her piano practice.) Her description continued that the song “is a musical portrait of the family’s Yorkshire Terrier, Benjamin Robert O’Keefe, attempting to describe musically his many charming mannerisms.”

Now, perhaps to a dog lover, this story makes perfect sense so far. But a dog tolerator like me considered Susan’s passion sweet but also bizarre, since dogs — or any pets, for that matter — have never made music in my mind.

The most extreme moment of the saga, however, came during the preparation for the recital. After explaining that she would introduce the song’s backstory to the audience, Susan said to me matter-of-factly: “We will need a poster of Benny.”

A what? Who has a poster of their family dog? And who would have the audacity to display such an image on a large easel to a crowd of more than 50 people at a children’s piano recital?

Me, it turns out.

Susan’s energy for this endeavor overwhelmed my intellect. Rather than resist her plan as the crazed idea of an overzealous animal-lover, I became pet-like and simply obeyed. Well, almost. Getting a poster of Benny on short notice was not feasible. I had to settle for an 18-by-24-inch enlarged photograph in a beautiful new frame. Hello, larger-than-life-size Yorkie photo; goodbye, many hard-earned dollars! And some of my dignity at the photo store.

The picture of Benny that my wife and I chose for his big close-up features a pensive, highly civilized pose. Benny lies on our hardwood kitchen floor in a pool of sunlight, the heavenly rays filtering his long hair as he stares wistfully into the distance like a seven-pound sphinx. You could say he’s nearly regal in the shot.

Fortunately, my daughter’s world premiere performance of “Benjamin O” went over well with the crowd. They also seemed to enjoy gazing at Benny’s visage while listening to the composition of light notes that alternately scamper and halt in, I must admit, small-canine fashion.

But then came the post-recital dilemma. What to do with the oversize photo of Benjamin O?

After searching the house, my wife and I found the perfect place: directly above his indoor potty pads. That’s right. In absurd juxtaposition, the corner of our kitchen features Benny at eye-height, a super-sized vision of royal magnificence, holding court above the place where he pees and poops unaccompanied by a soundtrack.