In the spring of 1999, my mom and Rich decided (after a nudge or two from Rachel, Michael and me) to allow into our family an eight-week-old West Highland White Terrier puppy. They decided to name her Piper (I think it was my brother’s suggestion – he has a knack for this sort of thing), and she was just a little red-collared bundle of snow-white fur and delicious puppy breath.
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| Dave and Piper, ca. 2003 |
She acquired several nicknames through the years (like everyone in our family), some which developed organically from the others – Pipey, Pee-be, Little Buddy, Pipedream, Dreamer, and Drimkerd (which is Dreamer in the language my mom and sister and I made up in 1991). She knew all our friends, and needed to be broken of the habit of peeing from excitement then rolling onto her back (and usually into the pee) for a tummy rub whenever anyone she knew came to visit. (She never broke the tummy rub portion of the greeting, however).
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| Piper wakes Ellen |
She especially loved Ellen, and was a champion snuggler where Ellen was concerned. During quiet time at Mom’s house, she would nestle in the crook of Ellen’s knees. When we watched her for overnights at our house, she would lie outside Ellen’s bedroom in the morning until we opened the door, then would run inside, wake Ellen with kisses, and claim a place next to Ellen’s head on the pillow.
She was part of our family’s head-count through some of our most important years – years which brought two high school graduations, three college graduations, two grad school graduations, three weddings (one through which we welcomed my three beautiful step-nieces), the birth of six grandchildren, and of course every holiday and several family vacations. She was a great Comforter whenever any of us were feeling down – those three college graduations were obviously the four-year conclusion to three college send-offs, and I know that Piper witnessed a few empty-nester-Mom-tears.
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| Really. She was part of the family. |
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| Piper meets Cecilia |
A year or so ago, a visit to the vet revealed a growing mass in Piper’s abdomen. Activities which Piper used to do with reckless abandon grew more and more difficult. Finally, it became so that it was more painful for Piper to live than it would be for us to live without her…so this past May, Mom and Rich made the difficult but compassionate decision to let her go. As every pet-owner knows, the love we have for our four-legged family members is unique, because it’s tinged with loss. We love them more, or at least take them for granted less, because we know that one day we have to lose them. We say good-bye…and then we have to help our children say good-bye too…
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From the very early days after Piper’s diagnosis, my mom-wheels started spinning. Inevitably, I would have to broach the topic of death with Ellen – one of those land-mine topics. I had to be conscious on every level about what kind of information I was going to give, but more importantly, how I was going to give it. I didn’t want to screw up. When the time finally came, I decided that I would break the news to Ellen when we went to Mom and Rich’s house. There, Piper would be conspicuously missing, so the concept of “we will not seePiper again” might be slightly more understandable than it would be in a place where Piper isn’t really supposed to be anyway.
So one fine day I suggested that we “head over to Moddy and Boppa’s house to play.” We loaded up and drove over, walked into their house and settled Cecilia into some toys, and I began to wonder if I should just tell her outright, or wait to tell her when she actually noticed that Piper was gone. The latter seemed way too much like avoidance, so I said to Ellen “let’s go onto the porch and have a talk.”
She snuggled into my lap. “Do you notice that there’s somebody who is not here right now?” I asked.
She nodded. “Boppa.”
There has to be a little dash of cuteness in every conversation. “Well, that’s true, Boppa is at work. Can you think of anyone else who isn’t here right now?”
“Piper,” she answered.
“That’s right,” I said. “Honey, Piper died. We won’t see her at Moddy and Boppa’s anymore.”
Without skipping a beat, she said, “But we can THINK about her.”
Wow. Could this be just way easier than I thought it would be? Does she have no questions at all for me? “We can DEFINITELY think about her – as much as we want. And we can miss her too. It’s okay to be sad and cry when we feel like we are really missing her.” Ellen thought for a minute, without moving from my lap. Finally, a question: “How did she get dead?”
Ooh, a toughie. Choose words carefully; under no circumstance should the phrase “put to sleep” escape my lips. “Well, a veterinarian came to Moddy and Boppa’s house and gave Piper some medicine to help her die. She was hurting so much that she couldn’t be alive anymore.”
“But WHY?” Oh, the eternal WHY. Think back to Algebra, or Calculus (or whatever subject I’m glad I never have to study again to which this pertains), and the x-y graph. Remember how lines are made up of two points whose location on the graph you can calculate? Remember also how you can ALWAYS calculate the existence of a point BETWEEN any other two points? So, like if Moddy and Boppa were standing in a line, there would be room for Ellen in-between them. Then there would be room for me in-between Moddy and Ellen. Then there would be room for Uncle Brother in-between Moddy and me. Mathematically speaking, you can always calculate a place for one more person, or point, between two others. Now, I didn’t just spew all that information because I loved high school Math so much. I did it because I wish to illustrate the nature of the “WHY?”s of a three-year-old, which are exactly like those points that can go on to infinity. There is ALWAYS another “WHY?” to answer, which probes at a detail even more obscure than one from the answer before.
“Well, Piper had lived a long time and she was sick. Sometimes that just happens.” (The closer the whys get to obscurity, the more likely it is that they will elicit this unfortunate answer, which signifies arrival at the outer limit of parental knowledge. In other words: “We’ve reached the Dummy Zone.”)
“Where was Piper when she died?” was Ellen’s next question.
“I’m not sure, sweetie. Probably lying in Boppa’s arms, and I bet Moddy was petting her too.”
A few moments of thought finally brought the answer “I think you’re right.”
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| Quiet time at Moddy's house |
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As luck would have it, we bumped into several more opportunities to discuss end-of-life issues. Cases in point:
· Just two days or so after the Piper talk, we were stuck in some heavy traffic and on the side of the road was a dead fawn. As soon as I saw it, I involuntarily gasped – a road-killed fawn is not only a rare sighting, but a tragic one. “Why did you do that?” Ellen asked. “Well, there was a fawn on the side of the road, and it was hurt very badly.” Then I thought to myself “no need to shy away from this” and added, “In fact, it was dead.” Several days later, Ellen recalled the dead fawn and said, “Mom, I wish I could’ve seen that dead fawn. I wanted to see what it looked like. What did it look like, Mom?” “Like a little fawn, with white spots, lying on the road. Maybe we can see some deer when we go up to the cabin next weekend.” “Will one be dead? I want to see a dead one.”
· I sang at a funeral recently – the wife of a friend from choir. I had to drop off the girls at their regular babysitter’s house, and so the night before, while tucking Ellen in, I said “Tomorrow you get to go play with Katelyn!” “Why am I going there?” she asked. “Because I am going to sing at a funeral.” As soon as I said it I realized that I was going to launch another round of questions. “What is a funeral?” we began. “It’s a church service for someone who has died. We go to celebrate their life and to say good-bye to them.” “But when will you sing for Piper?”
· Out of the blue one day – “Mom, do people die too?” “Yes they do. Anything that is alive will die when its life is over.” “Do trains die?” “No, they’re not really alive, so they don’t die, sweetie.” Ellen looked skeptical. A few days later, I entered her room, where she said “Mom, Henry’s dead.” I looked down, and sure enough, Henry (the one who “toots and huffs and puffs” according to the Thomas the Train theme song) was lying on his side and a few other trains (upright ones) were stationed around him. “Oh my,” I said. “How did he die?” “His boiler burst.” So she answered her own question there, I guess.
· One day coloring over at Moddy and Boppa’s, I said “I sure enjoy being over at Moddy and Boppa’s during the day.” “Me too,” said Ellen. I continued, “Sometimes I miss Piper though.” “Why?” “Because she’s not here and I wish I could see her and pet her. So I feel a little sad.” Some peaceful coloring, then from Ellen, “I am sad. I am worried about who will watch my trains when I die. Mom, will you watch my trains when I die?” A great responsibility. “I would be happy to watch your trains, but I wouldn’t worry about dying, sweetie. Kids your age don’t usually die.” “Okay, but then if you die, Dad can watch my trains, and when Dad dies, then Addie can watch my trains.” (Apparently in Ellen’s mind Addie outlives all of us. And makes a trustworthy train-sitter.)
