Once my parents got over the initial shock that I was getting married in Romania to a girl, they eventually came to love my dear wife (though they did not come to the wedding). But in the last ten years I can honestly say they have come to love her more than they do me, and my wife loves them unconditionally, in kind.
Well, maybe there’s one condition.
But I won’t mention it.
I shouldn’t.
Really.
Okay, I’ll tell.
Please realize, however, that this is a pretty awful story.
My dad (step-dad, really) drives my wife crazy with a couple of his more unusual traits. He is the oldest of four, graduated from West Point and worships his own father. It’s all very sweet in a biblical, patriarchal sort of way.
*cue weekend reminiscence *
(a knock at the door, Alex opens it. My mom is there, misty-eyed)
Mom: Well, Pokey’s gone.
Alex: Your dog? He’s dead?
Mom: Yeah. The infection just got too bad and there was nothing we could do anymore.
Alex: Ohh, poor dog! He vuz only puppy!
Mom: I know, he was just two years old. Roger has been crying all weekend.
Me: So did he let the vet put him down, or did he do it himself?
Mom: No, he did it.
Alex: OH, DEES HAS GOT TO STOP! DEES EEZ JUST AWFUL!
An explanation.
Apparently, in biblical times real men who truly loved their dogs did not take them to a veterinarian for a painless injection. Real men who really loved their dogs did the deed themselves.
So in order to please his father, my dad carries on this tradition. Whenever one of his dogs gets to the point of terminal illness, he takes them out into the woods and shoots them. Cats, too.
It started around ten years ago. Our golden retriever, Freya, was on her deathbed, and my mom was planning on taking her to the vet for euthanasia. My grandfather found out about this and called my dad to tell him that if he did this, it meant he didn’t truly love his dog. That no man put his dog through the fear and anguish of a trip to the veterinarian. That real men took care of this business themselves.
So my dad stopped my mom from taking Freya to the vet, and instead loaded his .38 and took her for a ride in his pick-up truck. The way he describes it is very sentimental. It was a beautiful day, with soft light filtering in through the Doug Firs and Hemlocks in a dell among the Weyerhaeuser lands on the south side of the Nisqually River. He talked with her, scratched her behind her ear in the way she always loved, and then stood behind her and emptied a nickel-cased round into the back of her skull.
Mom said he cried for days.
My wife was horrified when she heard this, comparing it to the kind of euphemistic ‘love’ many of her countrymen experienced during the harsh reign of Ceausescu.
But when their cat, Scrounge, died a couple of years later, apparently the tears he shed were not enough to wash away the blood lust. Same description of a sunny dell in the middle of the woods. Same .38. Same sick animal.
Unfortunately, a cat is much smaller than a dog. Apparently, this episode didn’t go as smoothly. When he fired the first shot, he missed, creating a big pile of smoke and dust next to Scrounge. Scrounge, now completely shocked and terrified, didn’t move. So he had to calm her down and compose himself. He had to put her down with a second shot.
Two years ago, their dog Sunmo became suddenly ill. The vet said he had a tumor and there was nothing to be done except to euthanize her. He asked my dad when he wanted to bring Sunmo in. My dad said he would take care of it. He took Sunmo out into the woods later that day for a pick-up ride, a scratch behind the ears and bullet to the back of the head.
As you can imagine, Alex does not let our kids visit ‘grandpa’ whenever they are even remotely ill.
And then, two weeks ago, their Great Dane Pokey succumbed to a year-long infection. And a pick-up ride. And a pretty dell among the forests. And a tradition that spans the millennia.
It’s a tradition about to skip a generation.
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