I lost my son on Friday, after a brief but hard fought battle against a disease that seemed to come out of nowhere and caused shifting symptoms that made it hard to get a handle on things. He would have been four years old later this week. I threw everything I could at saving him, but I got the call at 2:34 a.m. on Friday morning telling me that, while treatment at first seemed to be helping, another problem had emerged and he was failing. I was in the car minutes later, on my way to him, praying I wouldn’t be too late. He’d been sedated to keep him comfortable and I spent an hour talking to him about all the wonderful things we’d done in our 2-1/2 years together. Taking walks and learning to walk slowly to enjoy them, how he never really got the idea of stairs, going to festivals, his first ice cream, being the best backseat co-pilot ever, going to the oil change place and seeing his friends there, our trip to the ocean this summer. Dressing up for holidays and what a good sport he was to put up with such a crazy Mommy. I didn’t cry. I kept it happy and light and tried to celebrate our happy times. And before he took his final trip, I told him to look for those who’d preceded him: Delylah, Dahlyah, and Ruby. And especially Petie, Snow White, and Spatz who could show him all the Pit Bull things to do across the bridge.
Yes, Pit Bull. Yes, my son was a dog.
I know there are many folks who think I’m crazy. Who think I’m over-reacting, being emotional, being eccentric. Who think I’m being disrespectful to those who have lost a “real” child (making an uninformed assumption that I don’t know that loss, I do). It’s just a dog, right?
I know there are those who talk about how our “pets” are family and we love them and may grieve for them as much as or even more than we do other, human, family members or friends. You may even call yourself Mommy, but do you really mean that? Do you easily find yourself talking about your “pet”? About being “the owner”? How do they play into your priorities?
And I know there are a few, probably very few, of you who get it. Who embrace fully where I’m at with calling them my children. Who when the vet asks “Are you’re the owner?” reply with “I’m his mother”. They don’t have the same language, they don’t have the same social skills, they’re totally dependent on us, they have different needs in a variety of areas – physical, medical, mental, social, etc. They don’t grow up, they remain dependent, they grow old and leave us all too soon. But we feed them, train them, keep them safe and worry for their safety (especially if they are dogs who face ignorance, prejudice, and fear), love them unconditionally as they do us, show them the world and share its wonders together, and talk to them, learning to speak their language at the same time they learn ours in their own way. They’re perpetually in a childlike state. They’re our special needs children.
Even if you don’t get it, if you’re in the first or second group or somewhere in between, please give some consideration to those of us in the third category and understand that, while you may not agree with us, our beliefs, pain, and loss are so very real.
I love you, my BoBoMan, and always will.
03/20/2017
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