I'm not really sure where I'm going with this post. I think it's going to be about a faithful and companionable dog. But it might not be. It might be about a son going through a transition. It could be about a family pulling together in support of a sibling who is hurting. It might be about a mom and dad who connected with a son in a special way. It could be about a mother and her son.
Maybe it's about all the above.
The death of a pet who has lived out his life is more than just giving up a companion someone has enjoyed. It means the end of an era, the closing of a period of that person's life. A few years ago, another of our sons had to end the life of T-Bone, his sixteen year old Cocker Spaniel, whom he had had since he was nine years old. Another son had to euthanize Buck, his handsome German Shorthair. Burying T-Bone meant burying little-boy memories−- the camp-outs and deer trackings, snuggle times in front of the fireplace, races down the driveway, and fishing in the creek. This was when I realized the 25 year old man in front of me was the same little nine year old boy in his heart, and that part of him had to be reached to bring real solace.
A similar thing happened this week. Pete's master was Jed, only Jed didn't have him as a boy. He got Pete in his second year of college at UGA, so it was Pete who saw Jed through the uncharted waters of living away from home, pledging a fraternity, graduating, getting the first job, buying his own home. Pete was his comforter when relationships didn't work out or deals didn't go through. Pete was his pride and joy when he pointed a covey of quail or simply strutted his barrel chest. I think Jed's biggest struggle wasn't accepting Pete's demise, but that of wondering if Pete was really ready to go on. As emaciated as his body was, his eyes nevertheless followed Jed and their spirits stayed connected. It was not until our veterinarian/in-law gently explained that we would not want to live as a human in such a compromising physical condition that Jed was able to make the final call to terminate Pete's life.
Throughout the last three days, Burt and I were able to feel so close to our adult son. In the absence of a family of his own to share his grief, we could fill his emotional tank, and he was willing to let us. I'm thankful he didn't keep us at arm's length.
What I have to accept as a mom is that my own sons are not little boys, or college boys any more. If they were not the strong men of God that they are, this might be sad, but the fact is, they have become exactly what God told me to rear: five godly Christian men. But this doesn't keep me from looking back in my memories, just as I look back sometimes through pictures of them as little boys and very young men, just as Jed will look back and remember Pete and a pup. Jed can hold the memories, and he will, as he accepts Pete's passing. I too, will hold memories of our boys as they grew and matured, and I must accept that they are now men.
It's Tough on a Dog
By Jean W Sawtell
It's tough on a dog when his boy grows up,
When he no longer romps and frolics like a pup.
It's tough on a dog when his boy gets old,
When they no longer cuddle on his bed when it's cold.
It's tough on a dog when his boy gets tall,
When he's off with the boys playing soccer and baseball.
They no longer paddle through the mud in the bog,
Hoping to find a turtle or frog.
They no longer run through the grass up to their knees,
Or roll in the piles of fresh fallen leaves.
It's tough on a dog when his boy gets tall,
When he's off to school, looking at girls in the hall.
It's tough on a dog when he has work to do,
When he forgets to play as he used to do.
It's tough on a dog when instead of the woods or field or pond,
His boy becomes a man— and the man is gone.
