A Dog Can Help a Family Through a Rough Time
When my daughter Linda turned seventeen, our relationship was not pretty. For all of those mothers, daughters, fathers and innocent bystanders of a mother-daughter coming of age, no explanation is necessary. For those of you lucky enough to be ignorant of the tension, fireworks and angst of this particular rite of passage, there is no explanation of just how awful this phase of life can be. I do have some advice, however: consider adopting a dog.
Dogs bring out the warm, furry side of humans. Every year, the news headlines reliably report this aspect of humanity: dogs act as heroes as they save people’s lives; alerting their owners to fires, burglars and other dangers. They serve as assistance dogs—and not just for visually disabled anymore. A quick scan of the world of nonprofit assistance dog organizations show that our friends serve in many capacities: helping both mentally and physically disabled; working as drug and bomb detecting agents; acting as certified therapy dogs and of course, the role we are most familiar with: the family pet.
I have enormous respect for the dogs in our world. As a boarding kennel and grooming shop owner, Labrador Retriever breeder and exhibitor, and longtime dog aficionado, my livelihood depends on the bond between owners and their pets. So naturally I embrace the mutual love of dogs and their humans. Roger Caras said, “Dogs are not our whole lives; but they make our lives whole.†I see examples every day of the ways in which dogs make people more whole. It is hard to be materialistic when you own a pet. Every day in my grooming shop I see retired folks who may be pinching pennies, yet they unfailingly provide the best of care for their canine friend. Sometimes, after settling in a new guest at our boarding kennel, I’ll find a note written by a child, explaining the dog’s habits and fears. Once, a Tibetan Terrier arrived with a bag of toys, treats, a cushy bed and a note taped to a video, with instructions for nightly viewing.
So the fact that dogs are important to the social fabric of society is not new to me. But when my family reached the rocky terrain of adolescence, I developed a new, deeper respect for dogs. My story involves a diminutive black Labrador. When she was born, my daughter stayed home from school to help me whelp the litter. The ritual of puppy birth involves several careful steps. I keep a running tally of the mother’s labor: who, what and when, just in case I (or the vet) need to refer to it later. My record is all business: three o’clock, black male, three twenty, yellow female. My daughter’s record from that day is more descriptive—cute, shiny, wiggly, wild, cute (that’s just the first puppy!) We kept a female out of that litter, and named her Beechnut.
Both Beechnut and my daughter pursued their education. When Linda was nine, she competed in an AKC hunt test competition with year-old Beechie. I sat on the sidelines in a lawn chair watching the small child and the slightly smaller Labrador execute test after test; each time the dog making the child look good. I have a photo of Linda and Beechnut at the end of that day, holding the winning ribbons and looking quite pleased, both of them.
But those were happier times. A few years later, Beechnut retired to a life of snoozing on the couch. Linda turned into a teenager. Our life became less blissful. Here is the point: In all of our ugliness, in every tense moment and heated exchange, no one in my family has ever had a mean impulse toward a dog. There were weeks that Linda and I did not have a single civil word. But every day she rubbed Beechie’s tummy, filled her water bowl, and played fetch-the-Kong with her. I was also able to act kindly in this manner. Looking back, it is embarrassing to recall that our behavior toward the dog was the only truly civilized, kind interaction that happened.
My daughter is in college now, and I’m happy to note that things between us are very good. Beechie is quite grey, and spends her days fast asleep on Linda’s vacant bed . Linda calls me now and then. How are your studies? I ask. How’s Beechie? She asks me.
by Susan Sommer
