I sat down to read the oft-funny musings over at United States of Motherhood this weekend to be met with a blog post that sent me running to the couch to smother my dog (who wasn’t supposed to be there to begin with) in some toddler-style love.

You know the type: full on, won’t get off, almost smothering.

So what gives? Blogger Scouts Honor says her dog, Grendel, has cancer. And she doesn’t know how to tell her kids.

Been there? Not me . . . not yet, anyway. But reading the USM piece was no easy feat in part because Grendel looks a heckuva lot like my dog, Olivia, a boxer/hound mix with the same dark muzzle, fawn-colored coat and floppy ears. And the pictures of Grendel sleeping on her little blonde-haired boy could easily have been replaced with photos of Livvy splayed out across my sleeping blonde-haired girl.

It’s completely moribund, but I have a confession to make: I think about her death constantly. So what if she’s a still rambunctious six and a half? So what if the worst part of coming home is having Livvy crash through the door and practically knock my pre-schooler to the ground in her out-and-out excitement to see us?

I’m realistic. She’s going to die one day. And it had better be well before any of the two-legged members of my family. No, I don’t want to lose one of the great loves of my life. Which is why the foreshadowing of her death haunts me.

My daughter has experienced the loss of her beloved great-grandmother. Nothing compares – at least not yet – in human terms. But Livvy is her hot dog-stealing, reindeer antlers-wearing, smothering hug-suffering “mostly companion.” When she dies, so too will a piece of my daughter – much in the way that I will never forget the blizzard in fifth grade when my Dutchess breathed her last breath.

I couldn’t give Scouts Honor a single piece of advice on what to tell the kids as Grendel awaits his last doggy day. Because as long as I’ve thought about it, I can’t get past the dread and on to a course of action. True, in our household it’s merely hypothetical. No action has forced the issue. But I’m still flummoxed.

I confess I’m part of the millions of Americans causing the problem of older dogs in shelters – I believe firmly in the adopt-a-pet cause, but I can’t bring myself to subject my child to falling in love with someone’s whose life is thisclose to ending. There are boundless lessons to be learned in picking up an older dog at the shelter and bringing her home – compassion, a sense that older dogs have as much worth as the “cute babies.” Not to mention older dogs are often already trained and have a more even-keeled temperament. In this case, I’m truly selfish.

I don’t want to tell my kid the dog is dying . . . at least not yet.

Have you lost a pet since you’ve had kids? Any advice for parents who are facing their dog’s dying days?

Image: United States of Motherhood

Tweet

4

Pin It

Go Back To Strollerderby

4 Comments

Add your take:

Note: Babble is a supportive, diverse community. We encourage a range of opinions,
but any unduly hostile comments will be removed.