When my Dad killed The Family Dog

My dad died two years ago. It's been hard to get over. We had a year from his cancer diagnosis until he passed away, and I never wanted to admit what was happening and I'm only just admitting it now. I didn't want to see him on his death bed in the end, because I knew that if I didn't see it, part of me could deny it had ever happened. He was 44 years old. In case you're wondering, I am 29. My parents were young when I was born, and I've always banked on that to avoid those tragedies that we all face some day. Life is strange that way. All of my friends with parents in their 50s and 60s still have theirs, and I'm down one already.

You focus on the happy memories at first, but sometimes, there are less pleasant memories that repeatedly rise up like angry ghosts, demanding to be accounted for. They spring on you in the middle of the night, take grip on your mind, and refuse to let go. Lately, I can't stop thinking about how my father killed his dog when I was eight.

My parents had recently divorced. To this day, I'm not sure what the circumstances were. As part of attempting to make it up to myself, my sister, and my little brother, our parents each got a puppy. That dog that lived with my mother was Beauty. I cannot remember the name of the dog that lived with my father.

The two were sisters, mutts, smallish dogs, but not punters like poodles or chihuahuas. They were loving, but hard to train. And my father's dog liked to chew things.

I did not see him kill the dog. I am not sure how I know what happened, but I can picture it like I was there. My father was living in the basement of his oldest sister's house on the east side of Topeka. During the day, he worked as a meter man. He wore a blue uniform that was often mistaken for a policeman's uniform with black shoes that he kept well-polished. I think he had a special affection for shoes then, given that he walked miles and miles every day as part of his beat. This was before the scooters meter people use now.

He came home from somewhere, I imagine it was to buy what few groceries he could afford after giving most of his money to my mother to feed us, and his dog, the one whose name I cannot remember, had chewed one of his work shoes to pieces and was starting in on the other. It was then, in a fit of anger, that he threw the remaining shoe at his cowering dog, striking her in the head. She whimpered, fell onto her side, and died.

I know this story. Someone told it to me, but it was not my father. He never spoke of it. I saw tears in my father's eyes several times over my life-- he was not the kind of touchy-feely modern man that some fathers are, but he was not so stoic either. But I can remember asking my father about his dog, and seeing him shake his head and turn away to keep me from seeing his tears.

My mother gave Beauty to my father. Despite all the trouble they had, despite the fact that he had killed his own dog a week before, she gave him the dog. If he were alive, he would probably tell me that the reason was that my mother couldn't handle the dog, that Beauty was constantly making messes and she gave him the dog in frustration. I'm not so sure about that.

A year later, she was remarried, and we moved in with my father. Beauty became the family dog, and at some point, I forgot the other dog. We gave Beauty away to my mother's sister when my father remarried and we moved from Topeka to Lawrence. She's long dead now. She was a good dog. Gentle and forgiving of children.

I wish I could remember the dog's name. I think that some small part of me should honor her like I honor my father. He wasn't perfect, but I know he never meant to hurt his dog.