Life & Death

I was sitting in my room, playing with dolls when my mom walked in to announce the horrific news: my dad had just found our dog, Griswold, dead in our yard. I was in shock. No one had foreseen this tragedy. I sat on the floor and stared at the wall for a while.

Griswold had been born in a litter of bullmastiffs during my parents' short-lived dog breeding experiment, while I was an infant. He was my dad's favorite dog, and this love was reciprocated in full. Griswold was gentle giant who put up with a lifetime of torment from three young children and warded off possible threats with his intimidating appearance.

About a month later, it's was Brian's sixth birthday and our whole family was gathered around a huge newspaper-covered box. Anticipation was building as my parents told us to guess what this enormous present might be. I shouted, "A trampoline!" And Brian predicted that it was a dog. At that, my parents told him to open it and see. The three of us vigorously tore the newspaper away and unveiled a metal cage. Brian peeked through the first available hole and squealed with delight. My parents had already named our eight-week-old collie. In hindsight, that was a good decision, since my brothers and I used to come up with the lamest names for our pets: names like "Rascal," "Quackers," and "Speckles." So fortunately for everyone, my parents chose a traditional, feminine, and sophisticated name: Lady.

By the early evening, our tired-out puppy was conked out on the living room floor. Still very much aware of Griswold's death, I asked my dad how long Lady would live. He replied that dogs her size usually live about ten years, and I happily concluded that Lady would pretty much be around forever. My 18th birthday was too far off to fathom.

Lady was an adorable puppy, who grew up into a loyal, patient, submissive, and affectionate dog. She traveled with us to Belize every winter and swam with our family in front of our house. Lady consoled me when I cried and accompanied me when I was lonely. I remember one day when I thought Lady was my only friend in the world. She "played house" with my brothers and me; and when we acted out our favorite TV show, "Flipper," she was the dolphin. Whenever we pulled into our channel by boat, Lady would run up and down the beach in celebration of her masters' return. Everyone who came to my house knew and respected Lady. She was quite a dog.

I was wrong, however, about my 18th birthday. It came and went. And a couple months after I left for my freshmen year at Grove City College, my forever favorite dog passed away while she was asleep. My mom called me at college with tears in her voice, and after I had received the bad news, I found myself in shock once again. Lady was gone. Her lifeless body would soon be surrounded by dirt, and I would never hear her bark again.

I've never loved another dog as much as I did Lady. Maybe someday I will, but she's a tough act to follow.