Grab a box of tissues before you click on this link. It will lead to you to the photos of a fallen Navy Seal’s Chocolate Lab mourning by his casket earlier this year. Then there’s this one following the landslides in Brazil in January. And don’t even get me started about the trailer for War Horse. It looks like Homeward Bound on steroids. With a John Williams score, I’m legitimately concerned that I might start the ugly cry when I see that in the theaters later this month.
I cannot talk about those photos or accurately describe the War Horse trailer to anyone. Literally. My throat tightens up and won’t let the words come out. The would-be tears swelling behind my eyes paralyze my tongue instead. The reason for my emotionality is keeping me company as I type these words:
I am so in love with my dog, Teddy. Just like Navy Seal Tumlinson, I sometimes refer to my dog as “my son,” as I feel like I love him almost as much as parents must love their human children. I certainly treat him like my child: I sing him songs; I’ve switched his food three times to find one that doesn’t upset his tummy (we feed him this kind now); I buy him ice cream cones at Dairy Queen and McDonald’s; and I kiss his hairy, drooly face no less than ten times a day. I love that dog so much that - and remember that my dog is a big, lethargic Newfoundland - I once started crying when I thought he might be sick because he was merely sleeping on the floor (like he always does). At this point, I cry so easily thinking about Teddy that I could win an Academy Award.
Teddy may be only a year old, but I’m already dreading the day we’ll have to say goodbye. Unfortunately, Ian and I have been thinking of his health more critically in recent weeks because my friend’s dog - we’ll call him Rex - is sick. When she took Rex in for his annual checkup a month ago, the vet found something that the rest of us already knew about her cute pooch: that he has a big heart. An enlarged one to be exact, and he’s only one-year old, just like Ted. While we wait for an official diagnosis, our knuckles are turning white from crossing our fingers so tightly, hoping for an okay outcome.
At the suggestion of Rex’s caring owner, we just got Teddy something better than the fluffiest chew toy or peanut butter-est ice cream cone he could ever imagine. Because I cry at any splinter of a thought of permanent separation from him; and because I would drain every checking / savings / retirement / sock drawer account I have to save his life, we purchased health insurance for Teddy today. (Trupanion, per our vet’s suggestion.)
My dad once told me a Native American fable explaining the unique relationship between dogs and humans. I didn’t really understand it before I adopted Teddy. Now I understand it too well. Just don’t ask me to read it out loud.
I cannot talk about those photos or accurately describe the War Horse trailer to anyone. Literally. My throat tightens up and won’t let the words come out. The would-be tears swelling behind my eyes paralyze my tongue instead. The reason for my emotionality is keeping me company as I type these words:
I am so in love with my dog, Teddy. Just like Navy Seal Tumlinson, I sometimes refer to my dog as “my son,” as I feel like I love him almost as much as parents must love their human children. I certainly treat him like my child: I sing him songs; I’ve switched his food three times to find one that doesn’t upset his tummy (we feed him this kind now); I buy him ice cream cones at Dairy Queen and McDonald’s; and I kiss his hairy, drooly face no less than ten times a day. I love that dog so much that - and remember that my dog is a big, lethargic Newfoundland - I once started crying when I thought he might be sick because he was merely sleeping on the floor (like he always does). At this point, I cry so easily thinking about Teddy that I could win an Academy Award.
Teddy may be only a year old, but I’m already dreading the day we’ll have to say goodbye. Unfortunately, Ian and I have been thinking of his health more critically in recent weeks because my friend’s dog - we’ll call him Rex - is sick. When she took Rex in for his annual checkup a month ago, the vet found something that the rest of us already knew about her cute pooch: that he has a big heart. An enlarged one to be exact, and he’s only one-year old, just like Ted. While we wait for an official diagnosis, our knuckles are turning white from crossing our fingers so tightly, hoping for an okay outcome.
At the suggestion of Rex’s caring owner, we just got Teddy something better than the fluffiest chew toy or peanut butter-est ice cream cone he could ever imagine. Because I cry at any splinter of a thought of permanent separation from him; and because I would drain every checking / savings / retirement / sock drawer account I have to save his life, we purchased health insurance for Teddy today. (Trupanion, per our vet’s suggestion.)
My dad once told me a Native American fable explaining the unique relationship between dogs and humans. I didn’t really understand it before I adopted Teddy. Now I understand it too well. Just don’t ask me to read it out loud.
One day the Great Spirit placed Human apart from the animals. The Great Spirit then began to open a huge chasm in the earth to make this separation permanent. Dog looked at Human and then turned back to his animal friends. The chasm grew wider. Dog again looked at Human but again turned back to his animal friends. The chasm grew wider still. Finally, at the last possible moment before the chasm was too wide to jump, Dog took a mighty leap and forever joined with Human. It is that way to this day.
2 comments:
hahah "the ugly cry"
and I feel this way about fuzz, too :)
I love this blog post, Anne. After seeing Homeward Bound as a child I can no longer watch animal movies. Period. And I can definitely relate to this description: "My throat tightens up and won’t let the words come out."
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