Sasha, Emma, Abby, Ben and Jerry

“No matter how deep my sleep, I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep me from wagging a grateful tail.” ~ Eugene O’Neill

I just read in the Lansing State Journal that a 12-year-old Pomeranian named Sasha was killed by two larger dogs while being boarded at Waverly Animal Hospital last month. The owner, who felt like she lost her best friend of more than a decade, wanted to sue but her lawyer told her that pets are viewed as mere possessions in the eyes of the court, like bikes and televisions, and that she’d likely only be awarded Sasha’s original purchase price, $750, in compensation.

In fairness, the animal hospital people felt terrible, offering to waive Sasha’s boarding fees and cover the cost of her cremation and issuing a statement expressing their sadness and regret. (According to the Journal, they ended their statement with the traditional, “Our thoughts and prayers are with Sasha’s owner...” language. I’m not trying to be a jerk but just what do people mean when they say, “You’re in our thoughts and prayers” anyway? It’s like how presidents end every speech with “God bless you and God bless the United States of America.” Why do people say this? What, exactly, are they thinking about and praying for? How will we know if God decided to bless us and our country?)

I’ve owned Pomeranians. I’ve had a lot of dogs in my life – from mutts and Maltese to Gordon Setters and Golden Retrievers. As any dog lover will tell you, they become more than just a “possession” before you’ve left the shelter or breeder’s. They really are members of the family, hairy, four-legged ones, except they do their business in the backyard, lick their genitalia and drink out of the toilet if they’re thirsty enough. I’ve had a number of young charges that would eat crunchy nuggets that came in 10-pound bags instead of whipped peas that came in little glass jars. My canine kids were always faster than my human ones, less finicky and demanding, and a lot more loyal as the years went by.

On a sunny Sunday afternoon a few years ago, my family and I were walking on the campus of Michigan State University, checking out the Arts and Crafts section of the East Lansing Art Fair, when I ran across a Gordon Setter tied to a tree and panting in the shade. My best friend in my early teen years had been a Gordon Setter named Abby and it seems like you don’t see too many of that breed for some reason so of course I stopped and introduced myself to the owner. This was the point at which my kids became embarrassed and Anita became concerned because when he told me his dog’s name was Abby, I couldn’t prevent myself from loudly exclaiming, “No sh*t! What are the odds?!” or something to that effect. I briefly allowed myself to think it might somehow be my Abby until I did the math and realized there was no way his Abby was 224 dog years old.

My heart’s been broken a number of times by the death of a dog. Almost 15 years have passed since Ex-Wife Number One and I had to put my beloved Emma, a Springer/Chihuahua mix, to sleep yet I remember the experience like it was yesterday: the heavy sigh Emma made when the shot was administered; how I didn’t realize how fast she would leave us or else I would have insisted on holding her, not the veterinary assistant; how EWNO and I sobbed and held on to each other all the way out to the parking lot; the pain and despair I felt because my sweet Emma was gone; and the conviction with which I pledged never to get another dog again as long as I lived. (Emma was three or four dogs ago, give or take.)

I was just starting to get really attached to Ben and Jerry, our new Maltese puppies, when my relationship collapsed and I left Lansing for my parents’ house over a week ago. Unlike Sasha’s owner, I did get to say goodbye to the boys. But their absence – not being greeted and smiled at and licked, not being able to pick ‘em up and stroke behind their ears, not finding chewed-up Kleenex on the floor and shoes that were pilfered from the closet in the foyer – still cuts like a knife several times a day and makes everything worse. (My parents have two wonderful Golden Retrievers, Duffy and Travis, but I’m afraid to get too attached.)

I’m truly saddened by what happened to Sasha and I feel sorry for her owner – not because she can’t snag more cash in court but because her beloved canine companion, her best friend, was taken away from her. Loss sucks, pure and simple. And although I guess the gesture is nice, being inserted into people’s thoughts and prayers doesn’t make it any better.

Source: Lansing State Journal.