Does the dog die?

As a child, it was the question I asked every time a book was given, suggested or assigned. If the dog died in the story, I wanted no part of it. In those early years of my life, before I’d ever lost a thing I loved, the saddest thing I could imagine was losing something I so badly wanted. A dog.

My oldest sister – by ten years – once encouraged me to read a book that she had read when she was younger. Our mother had given it to her, sharing that she, too, had read it as a child. It followed the adventures of a young girl who went to Europe in the days before World War I; she visited France, Switzerland, Italy, and other places that – though far away, always felt within reach. Perhaps, my sister suggested, you might want to visit Europe someday. Before I could commit to the read, I asked the standard question: Does the dog die? There is no dog, she replied.

It was always the test question. That same sister, when I was just six-years-old, gave me the book Madeline, for my birthday. The memory is clear; opening that package, with my six siblings and parents all scattered about the tiny living room as we gathered to celebrate. ‘You’ll like it,’ she shared; ‘it’s about a little girl in Paris who lives in a boarding school and has so many adventures.’ She turned the pages as she sat next to me; the two of us admiring the illustrations as if, by ages sixteen and six, we’d already visited Notre Dame, Arc de’ Triomphe and Sacre Coeur many times over and were reminiscing about our trips. And before I could ask, she reassured me – there is no dog.

I fell in love with Madeline on that November evening in 1968, and I made the emphatic declaration that when I grew-up I would go to Paris and, when I had a little girl, would name her Madeline.

How lovely to be able to remember a time in life when I’d lost no one I loved, and loved all in my life so fiercely. Of course, I knew of death. My mom had lost her own mother at such a young age, and the fact she never spoke of my grandmother confirmed my suspicions that death was such a scary, sad and horrible thing that, once it happened, it changed you forever.

But childhood doesn’t last. With each passing year my love of reading grew; the plots became more intricate. And finally, our family got a dog – Linus; and the brown and white beagle with a crooked tail became my best friend. He saw me through the awkward stages of life – those pre- and early-teen years in which everything felt a bit off. Friends were few and the multiple moves to new towns and homes made me increasingly feel that I was on the outside looking in. Looking in at what, I couldn’t say – because nothing impressed me much in those places; at least as far as I could see. Surely, more exciting adventures awaited. And so, instead, I read. And read. Fiction was a passport. And when, inevitably, there was a dog in the story, I’d find Linus and have him curl in next to me, his presence offering all the reassurance and courage to read on.

We grew-up together and the awkwardness of youth began to dissipate. My confidence bloomed, my book shelf became larger, my ambitions bolder. And then, right before high school graduation, Linus became sick. And then, my dog died.

That was more than forty-years ago. And until then, the ache of that loss was the most intense hurt I’d ever felt. My heart was broken. Days were too quiet and the nights so lonely. That fall I went to college, studied Journalism and American Literature, eventually wrote two novels, dozens of short stories and read hundreds more. I fell in love, often, and had my heart broken many times. And then I fell in love again. We married. Children came and grew and the love for them was intense and overwhelming. In truth, and at turns, it’s been joyful as well as terrifying. Because, death, it turns out, isn’t the scariest or saddest passage. It’s the trials and events of life that come so unexpectedly and turn a typical, non-eventful day – or night – into one that reminds us of just how very fragile and tenuous the threads are that hold us together.

I made it to Paris, more than once, tracing the footsteps and stories of my favorite authors. A few years ago our son, Andrew, and I journeyed there and he acted as wingman on my pilgrimage. I ache to go back, again and again. My sister, inspired by that novel our mother recommended some sixty-plus years ago, went to Europe much more frequently and became a professor of History. I work in health policy by day and, by night, become the writer I dreamed. My daughter’s name is Madeline, and there have been many dogs since Linus; each a best friend in their time and place. All but George, the coal black Doodle, have, after full lives of loving unconditionally, died. But the lives they had, and the joys they brought were gifts.

I read without limits now; no longer intimidated by what the pages might contain. I learned years ago that, yes, the dog dies. Parents die. Best friends and siblings pass away, too. Some just slip into the shadows. The ache is different with each and, sometimes, the loss of the dog hurts more than that of the human. But the life they led left indelible and immeasurable marks on my own.

I am, by no standards, old; nor am I delusional. Life is moving swiftly. Five of my siblings are, remarkably, still alive. Equally stunning to us all, we buried our oldest brother just a year ago. Throughout our lives our relationships have ebbed and flowed as is often the case, I suspect, in other families. I really don’t know; I only know mine. Our parents are gone; dad nearly sixteen years after my mother.

How blessed I have been to live, love and be loved by so many, in so many different ways.

I know George will die someday and — as the others — his mark will be as permanently etched on my heart. Every day is a page in our story.

If we’re lucky, we spend a good part of each day with our dogs – taking walks, napping together and sitting close when the day is finished; a book in hand and soft, velvet ears draped on our lap. The plot twists come. And yes, someday, at some point, the dog, like the rest of us, will die. But on all the other days, we live.

(c) 2020; (rev) 2024