by Aubrie Mazurek

Seven years of anger has been holed up deep inside of me. Anger directed at my father for seven years. I come back to it every time I think about our old dog Kona. I am not someone to hold a grudge, but this, this was unforgivable.

My father and I have the best relationship. We go beyond what a parent-child relationship is. He is my best friend. We joke, we confide in each other, we even “insult” each other. When I get ready in the morning, Dad always asks me if I am trying to make myself look beautiful. After I say that I am, he always tells me that I didn’t start soon enough. We defend each other through thick and thin. He is my rock. He is the standard I hold every guy to.

This is a story about our dog Kona. To understand Kona’s story we have to begin to unwind not only my father’s story, but also my own. Kona was a family dog, but we all know that dogs choose someone to bond closely with. That person was my father. Kona would run along side my dad as he attempted to mow the lawn. He would follow my dad as he lit up fireworks in our front yard. He would fetch all the rocks my dad threw down our hill. He would even eat corn on the cob in rows, like a human, if my dad held it out for him, so I could only imagine how my dad felt when he decided it was time to put Kona down.

I loved Kona. I grew up with him. He was my watch dog, my playmate, my protector, my best friend. Some days, after school, when the bus dropped me off at the bottom of the driveway, he would run down the hill, almost too fast for his small legs, so fast he would be tumbling more than he was running. He would walk up the driveway with me, keeping my pace, making sure I wasn’t alone. Other days, as I neared the top of our hill, I would call his name, and see his head pop out of the plants next to the garage. He must have been trying to keep cool in the shade and dampness of the garden bed. To this day I still look for him in that garden when I come home. Instead, I only find the ghost of the imprint he left in those plants.

Kona was a lively puppy, but he started to change right around the time he turned 12. “That’s when we were starting to notice how sick he was becoming,” my dad told me, “because he started to lose weight.” My dad sat straight in his seat, which was odd because the couch was always his place to relax. I could tell this was an uncomfortable topic of conversation because he couldn’t look me in the eye and it seemed like he could not ease the tension from his shoulders.

He said that he didn’t think Kona was suffering, not yet anyways. But he did notice changes in Kona’s behavior. Dad told me, “He was becoming more lethargic and less playful, and then he just stopped eating.” It seemed as if my dad was avoiding eye contact with me. Even when he met my eyes, it was as if he was looking through me, almost like I was transparent.

He stopped chasing the lawn mower. Kona looked like he had tired eyes, eyes that couldn’t muster the energy to fetch the rocks my dad threw. It was as if he had lost interest in everything he was previously interested in. The only times Kona would get any nutrition at all was when my dad would personally hand feed him.

I was old enough to understand that Kona wasn’t doing well. Of course, pets don’t last forever, but please God, not yet. Don’t take my puppy away from me.

I was a freshman in high school when it happened. I remember being in my seventh period English class, just sitting down at my desk reading the text message on my phone from my mother with an expressionless face. “Breeze, we are at the vet with Kona. He’s not looking so good.” I knew what this meant. It was time to let him go. It didn’t matter if I was ready or not. If Kona was ready, I had to be too.

“We didn’t plan on putting him down right then and there,” Dad said. “We took him to the vet because he was losing so much weight and not eating. We were looking for some help to see what we could do, and the vet, at that point, told us he was dying and that we could hospice him at home if we wanted to, but it could have also been that we come home one day from work and he could be dead.” Dad shifted in his seat. It looked like he was going to reach for his beer, but instead he started gripping the side of the couch. I noticed his chin, quivering the ever slightest bit. Dad was about to start crying.

I asked my mom if I could be picked up so I could be with them. I awaited the ping from my phone, staring at it like that was going to make the text come faster. Ping. “I don’t want you to see Kona like this. He’s suffering. The vet says it’s time now.” I set my phone on the table, slowly standing up from my desk, and walked out the door of the classroom. I had to clear my head. I felt cold. I started sobbing when I was about halfway down the red-lockered hallway. I stopped walking and slowly sank down to the floor. How could this be happening? Just last night I was holding his head in my lap, stroking his ears, and now, when I come home, he won’t be there. He won’t be there to greet me again. Why couldn’t I say goodbye? Why couldn’t they pick me up? Why were they making this decision for me? Why did they have this stupid practical reasoning? Was Kona going to be able to forgive me? Was he going to notice that I wasn’t there? Was he scared? Would he have taken comfort in my voice?

If I thought I was having a tough time with this, I could only imagine how hard this was for my dad. My dad likes to say he is not the emotional type of guy, but he loves his pets. He treats his pets as if they are his children, not letting them stay outside for extended periods of time during the winter, he buys dog beds for every room of the house. He even shares his precious beer with his pets. To put down a dog for my father would probably be like watching his own child die, something no parent wants to do. “The atmosphere, it was awful. I didn’t want you there. We were there for about an hour, trying to make a decision that was impossible to make. The vet tried to explain what a dogs purpose is in their life, to make their masters happy. He told us that Kona was too sick and too tired to make us happy anymore, so he wanted us to let him go.” Tears were visibly welling up in my dads eyes as he said this to me.

My dad’s heart had to be ripping into two when the vet pushed the syringe full of medicine into Kona. Was he holding Kona’s paw? Was he stroking his ear? Was he trying to tell Kona how much he loved him between sobs? “I told him I loved him and watched as his eyes started to close. I felt miserable. I was second guessing my decision, whether or not it was the right thing to do at the time. It was the right thing at some time, but, whether that was the right time or not, I’ll never know.” Dad put his thumb and pointer finger on his eyes, wiping away the falling tears before I could notice the water streaking his tanned face.

I was with my godmother all afternoon. I think my parents told her to keep me away from the house until they were both home. She had taken me to the gym, zumba actually. For the two hours after school, I had forgotten about what was supposed to be happening that day. But, I quickly remembered when we pulled up to the top of my hill, and I finally faced my parents. Both of them were crying, Kona nowhere to be found. Seeing their tears made me cry instantly. I walked up our porch stairs with heavy feet and a heavy heart. I hated seeing my father cry, so I walked into his open arms, trying to relieve his pain. We were holding each other for what felt like ten minutes, but in reality it was only a few short seconds. As I pulled away from his chest, I began to get angry. I didn’t understand why my parents didn’t want me to know they were putting Kona down until it was too late for me to say goodbye. I tried asking them why I couldn’t have been there, but my words came out muffled as my sobs overtook my body. Each attempt became harder than the last as my feelings were rushing to the surface. Sadness. Grief. Frustration. Anger. I knew if the words got out, they would be accusing jabs headed straight at my dad, like an out of control car with no brakes. My dad didn’t deserve what I was about to say to him right then, so instead, I ran upstairs to my room letting out sad and angry screams into my pillows. Even when I was so angry at him, I was also trying to defend him.

I have been so mad at my parents for all these years holding a grudge over them because they wouldn’t let me be there. I was angry at my mom for being so short and curt with me in those text messages. She was acting like this whole situation was no big deal. No big deal? That was my dog, the dog I grew up with. Why in the world would she just brush me aside like that?

My anger really resided in my dad. I thought we had a relationship that was built on foundations of trust, respect, loyalty. He kept this from me. I thought we were better than that. It felt like he was stabbing me in the back. My dad, my rock, my friend, single handedly began to rip my heart into two. I defended my father through the choices he made. Why? I defend my friends, the people I love, even when I don’t agree with their decisions. But the time I wanted him to do the same for me, he didn’t.

I felt guilty. Kona was the family dog and the whole family wasn’t there on his last day. Maybe I would have been a wreck. I don’t think I would have wanted to know what the car ride home felt like. It probably felt like you were trying to gasp for breaths that would never come. Dad said, “It was horrible, quiet. I almost fell off my feet, I was broken down so much.” Visible tears were welling up in my eyes, streaking down my red, splotchy skin. Seeing my tears freely falling down my cheeks, my dad did not hide his. He was looking at me this time, not through me. When he looked at me, my tears just flowed harder.

I have voiced to my parents several times that I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t let me be there. Their answer has been the same every time I brought it up. “I didn’t want you to know because I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t want you to see this. I have seen this before and it was not a pleasant experience, so I was just trying to protect you from it.” This answer did not satisfy me. Their answer was so practical. I didn’t want practical. I wanted them to stop reasoning with their brain and start thinking with their heart. But this is just how my parents are. Practical. But, feelings aren’t practical, they’re raw. My parents have worked in the medical field for thirty plus years. Practicality was second nature to them, so, with something as emotional and heartfelt as this, they defaulted to their practical side.

In death and dying, practical thinking allows a certain disconnect from what’s actually happening, a way of self protection from not getting attached to your patient. If we begin getting attached, it makes it that much harder when that patient dies. We feel that death in every nerve ending in our body. Here’s the thing. Kona wasn’t a patient, so why treat him like one? Because it’s easier to deal with. I didn’t want easy. I wanted messy.

When a loved one dies, we crave the messiness of what death brings: sorrow. Experiencing the messiness allows the layers of loss to peel back, allowing the healing process to take over. If we are not given that messiness, it’s as if you are being robbed of the end, never allowing that healing to occur. While sheltering me from sadness and sorrow to spare my feelings may have been my father’s best intentions, it made matters worse. While my parents got to begin their healing, I was left with questions, questions that have haunted me, questions that are blocking the healing from happening. Even when I find the answers to these questions, the gloom of that robbery will remain, a thundercloud that is there to stay.

I needed to know if my dad would have handled this whole situation differently, with him knowing full well how I feel now. “Knowing what I know now,” he said, “I probably wouldn’t have done anything differently with you being the age you were…No, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. But, I can tell you now, there will never be a time that you will not be there. You know, we have a pet that is close, and I promise you will be the first to know if anything happens.” I was shocked. I looked away from him and at the paused television. I have given him so much grief for the past seven years and I thought for sure he would have tried to appease me by saying he would have handled things differently, even if it wasn’t true. All I wanted was something so simple as a goodbye, but instead all I have is guilt and confusion.

Goodbyes give us closure. They allow us to get the clarity we need and truly let go. I haven’t let go of Kona because I never got that clarity. There is a part of me that will always hold onto a sense of guilt, guilt that Kona has not forgiven me for not being there.

How can anyone cope with a loss like this? Dad told me that having two dogs instead of one has helped the coping process, but time is the key player. He still slips up and calls one of our other dogs Kona. Whenever he does this, he looks down and smiles slightly, probably reminiscing about his memories of Kona. Maybe he’s thinking about the time from when Kona was a defiant puppy or the times when Kona would lick beer out of his beer glass. He then snaps his head back up and jumps into the conversation again. He thinks I miss this, but, I see it. Every time. Looks like there is never enough time to ever truly forget, but maybe it just makes it less hard. I need more time.