jewishblues

The first dog whose death I can remember was Ruby. She was a catahoula, on the larger side, perhaps 75 or 80 pounds. There had been pets that died before Ruby, but I must have been too young to have formed definite memories of them. Reaching back into my memory now, I can't even clearly recall how old I was when we euthanized Ruby and this inability to remember bothers me in a vague way. I don't even remember whether I was at the veterinarian's clinic when she died. All that I can bring to mind is the first time I cried over her death. It was a few days after she died and I was in the car with my mother on a weekday afternoon; she had just turned onto the street we lived on, and I recall being suddenly seized by grief. I don't know if there was something special about that particular moment, but for the first time the thought appeared in my mind that Ruby was dead, and that I would never see her again, and it struck me as somehow profoundly unfair, that death itself was in some way horribly unfair. Ruby had been a good dog, always sweet and gentle. And I began to cry, in the front seat of the car with my mother driving us home. I don't think I had ever cried out of emotion before, and my mother consoled me as best she could. But even now, after all the other memories have faded, I think I can still feel the ache in my heart and the lump in my throat, the tears boiling up in my eyes at that one peculiar moment.