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By Newsweek Editors
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It was the kind of news story that, until a few months ago, would have made me roll my eyes in exasperation. Grief counselors would be available for the families of the 60 cats and dogs that had died in an early-morning kennel fire.
So very sad, but grief counseling? Come on. I could never understand why stories of animal tragedies can sometimes seem to provoke more public reaction than reports of abused or neglected children. For the pets lost in the fire, our community mobilized--even holding a memorial service in their honor.
I now understand the need to grieve. The news of the kennel deaths came two months after we lost our own family pet, Ernie, a big, loopy, black Labrador. He died after hours of surgery to try to correct a case of bloat, where his stomach twisted and swelled painfully, cutting off circulation to much of his body.
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Like the deaths of the dogs and cats lost in the fire, Ernie's death at the age of 11 was unexpected. He was lean and tall and frequently ran in a field near our home, where he was off the leash and free to romp. People often mistook him for a young dog. I thought he would live for years.
I am not a diehard dog person, and Ernie and I had, at times, a tense relationship. I need to be honest about the dog: he was loud, messy and generally a pain in the neck. He also had the world's worst sense of timing. Start to drift off to sleep for a well-earned nap? He'd bark. Have company? He would supply some after-dinner gas for their enjoyment. Late for work? He'd burst away to freedom while being marched from the house to the dreaded tether.
He was difficult. But he forced us out to exercise, even during the worst weather. He loved my son so thoroughly it would bring tears to your eyes. And he sat by me, his head resting on the couch pillows, his big, brown eyes full of sympathy, as I cried my way through four miscarriages.
After 11 years with a hardheaded dog worming his way into my hardhearted existence, I miss him every day. My heart sinks a little each time I come home and automatically scan the yard for Ernie, ready to grab him before he commences a loud and joyful welcome. Instead, I can take my time. My house is cleaner, too. It's cold comfort.
Despite my complaints about him, I always, secretly, liked the fact that we never truly owned Ernie. He never bent to our will. It was quite the opposite.
We first got him for hunting purposes. My husband, an avid sportsman, joked that Ernie would wait for him to clear a path through the brush. And although Labs are natural-born swimmers, Ernie hated the water.
He didn't like hunting or swimming, but we discovered, after moving to a college town, that he loved keggers. I'd find him at yard parties near campus, surrounded by beer-drinking, adoring students who'd put a red bandanna around his neck.
Ernie was an escape artist. Although he never jumped fences, he could open doors and latches like a canine Houdini. He'd find other ways to get away, snapping cables, digging under fences, slipping his collar. He frequently took himself on walks, flouting the city ordinance requiring dogs to be on a leash.
We picked him up at gas stations, by the Christian Science reading room and at a restaurant with a patio bar. Once, when he slipped his collar and left his identification behind, he lived with a lovely family for three days before we tracked him down.
The police brought him home twice in a squad car. We had to bail him out of the dog pound five or six times, enduring lectures and fines. Often he'd end his romps by returning on his own. I would find him in the backyard in the middle of the night, hours after his escape from our house, surrounded by shoes, gardening tools and other objects from the neighbors' yards. The biggest mystery was a fake-fur hat with a Bloomingdale's label. I never found its true owner.
I was ready to help Ernie through his old age, his love earning our understanding and patience. But it was not to be. He died in his prime. As always, his sense of timing was off. I realize now that I took him for granted. When I dug through stacks of photos, I found only a few of Ernie. My favorite: Ernie as a pup on a park bench, with a tongue that was somehow wider than the mouth from which it was hanging.
I've gone through the stages of grief. There's guilt: if only I had taken him to the vet when he first got sick, in the morning before work, instead of racing him there, desperately ill, at lunchtime. There's the blues: I find myself depressed or cranky some days. There's a tremendous need to talk about my dog with friends or family. Yes, I understand the need for counseling. As many people told me, we lost a member of the family. Indeed we did. I won't roll my eyes.
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