Dogs

I didn't know this. I didn't know
he was bleeding to death. All I
knew was my Dad was crying,
my Mom was crying, the dog was
whining on the cold bathroom
floor, and my parents sent Wes
and me back to our bedroom so
we couldn't watch.The next
morning, Mom told us Clancy
was dead. I don't think I
understood what that meant, but
I figured it meant that he wasn't
around anymore. He was gone.
Not long after. that, my Dad was
gone too, gone on TDY, or
temporary duty. This is a military
euphemism. Temporary is when
you're gone a few days. He went
on TDY a lot, and was gone
sometimes for up to a year.
So he was gone while all of this
happened.
One day my mother brought
home an Irish setter puppy. Her
name was Molly. She had a red
ribbon tied around her neck. My
God, she was so cute.
I don't know if you know anything
about the Irish setter, but it is
probably the dumbest breed of
dog on earth. And Irish setter
pups, well, they're orange fur
and air and that's about it. A kid
can feel like Stephen Hawking
next to an Irish setter puppy.
And five-year-old kids, like I was
at the time, have a natural
instinct to love and protect
something they see as even
more vulnerable than
themselves. I remember treating
this dog like she was a baby,
and she was, all floppy and
bouncy, and loving her like she
was a member of the family,
because she was.
I turned six, and Molly grew. She
went from being a pudgy little
round ball to being a
long-legged puppy, swift and
ready to run, as was her natural
tendency. She would always run,
run, run around the yard,
sometimes bolt out the front
door and down the street. She
did that a lot, but she would
always come home, eventually.
Then one day, she didn't. She
had gotten out again, but we
were sure she would be back
soon.
I was swinging on the swing-set
when my brother Wes ran up to
me with tears in his eyes.
"Molly's dead!" Then he ran off
towards the street. I jumped off
the swing-set and ran after him.

I don't know who thought it would
be a good idea to bring Molly to
our door. Who thought, who was
the idiot, who thought they
needed to prove that our dog
was dead?
I ran down to the curb, and
there, lying on the tail of a
flatbed truck, was Molly.
She had been hit by a car. I
looked at her. My mind still
registers the sight of her lifeless
body, of the dried blood caked
to her orange hair, an icicle of
spittle hanging from her mouth.
But worse were the ants. There
were ants all over her, crawling
all over her. And in her eyes.
There were ants eating her eyes.
I cried for two days. Mom talked
to me about Molly a lot, kept
telling me that Molly was in
heaven, and it was okay for me
to be sad but Molly was with
God. But I was inconsolable. I
lay on the couch in my parents'
little cracker box house and just
cried and cried and cried.
A week later, I was sitting in the
backyard with my girlfriend,
Linda Powell. Linda and I were
betrothed. We were both six at
the time, but we knew we were
going to be married when we
were eight, which was years
away.
I told her Molly was on her way
to heaven.
I pointed to the sky. I said: "See
that?"
"What?" she asked.
"See that up in the sky?"
"No."
"There's a little teeny, tiny
speck. It's orange, and really,
really small. That's Molly on her
way to heaven."
"I don't see it."
"It's way up there, and it's really
small. You can barely see it."
And then Linda, bless her, said:
"I see it."
But after that, I never valued
pets like my Dad did. I loved
them, sure, but when they died,
they died and I shed no tears.
Okay, maybe one or two.

Will Kern is the author of the
play Hellcab and is a sub-editor
in Life!

A MAN gets a dog when he is
20 years old, and 15 years later
she is still with him. She is old
and sick maybe, but she is a
partner in his life, an honoured
and loved member of his family.
And when she dies, the man
mourns her passing.
And for some, the death of a pet
is like the death of a child.
That's how it is with my Dad.
Don't get the wrong idea. My
Dad is no sensitive ninny. You
would be hard pressed to find
anyone more manly than he.
Sure, he is in his 70s. Time has
packed jowls unto his cheeks. It
has stolen the hairs off his head
and planted them on his back. It
has slowed his striding gait,
plumped his belly into a
watermelon and pulled his flesh
down so it sags on him like a
comfortable sweatshirt.
Ah, but to judge the shell is to
miss the man.
He was career military. He flew
U2s over Cuba during the
Cuban missile crisis. He did two
tours in Vietnam flying
reconnaissance missions over
the north. He retired a full
colonel from the United States
Air Force, and at the end of his
career he had 10,000 airmen
under his command.
He's a natural born tough guy. If
my Dad and the Marlboro man
ever got in a fight, you'd be a
fool to put your money on the
cowboy. My Dad would kick his
Stetson-wearing, goat-roping,
cigarette-smoking ass.
But when it comes to his dogs,
this man of steel, my Dad, turns
into the man of jelly.
Mention the names Teddy,
Scatter or Clancy, and you'll see
him get misty-eyed. These were
his children. They drooled a lot,
had cold noses and their
toenails clattered on the
linoleum when they walked, but
they were his children,
nonetheless.
They loved him unconditionally.
They did not talk back. They
never asked for money. They
did not have opinions. They
could never disappoint.
I have seen my father cry five
times in my life. Three of those
times have been over the death
of his pets.
He did not cry at the funeral of
my Mom's father. When my
grandfather died, it was
understood that we were to keep
a stiff upper lip and dry eye. If
my mother was not going to cry
over my grandfather, then my
Dad and my brother Wes and I
sure as hell weren't going to,
either.
But pets are a different story.
The first time I ever saw my Dad
cry was when I was five years
old. This was in Tucson,
Arizona, where we were
stationed at the time.
I really didn't understand what
was going on. Our Irish setter,
Clancy, was dying on my folks'
bathroom floor. Someone in the
neighbourhood had fed him a
chicken bone and he was in
terrible pain, and he was
hemorrhaging from inside, but