PEPPER AND MY DAD
PEPPER AND MY DAD
We were not allowed to have dogs in our house when we grew up. They stayed outside in a dog house. Winters in the Texas Panhandle were sometimes brutal, but the dogs seemed to adjust to the weather. I always felt sorry for them and frequently begged to bring the dog into the house for warmth, but they were never allowed inside, even when the temperature would fall far below freezing.
My parents acquired Pepper some years after the three of us left home.
Pepper never spent much time outside during his nine years on this earth other than "helping" my father while he tended his beloved garden. His garden produced the most delicious vegetables you've ever tasted. He traveled with my father everywhere except when he played golf. Since their house was next to the 14th hole, I can just picture my father sneaking out on the golf course at the end of the day with Pepper sitting in the seat beside him on the golf cart.
Pepper was about eight when my parents moved to a town north of Dallas to escape the Panhandle winters. They had only lived there for a brief time when Pepper became ill. After a series of tests, it was discovered that he had tumors throughout his body and was declining rapidly.
I was with them when the veterinarian gave them the bad news. There was no cure for the dog. Pepper was suffering. My father made the tough decision to have him euthanized.
I had never seen my father cry, but he did on that day. He wept as he kept expressing his sorrow at losing his beloved dog. "He was the only thing I've ever loved," he sobbed. When your father makes that sort of statement in front of you, you're a bit taken aback. You find yourself feeling sadder for him than you could for yourself at that moment. Maybe he didn't love any of us, but it was even more disturbing that his only experience with love was this dog he was losing. That was an even sadder sight than the loss of the dog. I wished I could have done a rewind on his life and introduced him to love at a young age so that he would have been open to giving and receiving love throughout his 91 years on this earth.
After Pepper's death, my parents started bickering more than usual which I gathered was how they handled grief. My mother had mentioned to me years ago that she loved Pomeranians. She thought they were the cutest and most intelligent of all the breeds. When I was a child, a blond Pomeranian appeared at our front door one day. She took care of it until the owner was located.
Two or three months after Pepper died, I saw an advertisement in the local newspaper about a new litter of Pomeranian puppies ready for adoption. My daughter and I went to the house and chose the feistiest puppy of the litter. The next day, we took him to my parents' house. It was my father's 80th birthday and a few days before their anniversary.
My father was thrilled to have this little black fluffy puppy and never failed over the years to repeatedly thank me for my gift. He named him Harley. The war between my parents stopped. Harley became their constant companion, although he was more attached to my mother than my father. I called him the "devil dog." He was extremely possessive of my mother and would try to attack anyone who came close to her if he was nearby.
The last year of my father's life was spent in a nursing home. When my mother visited him, she would take Harley. It thrilled him to see Harley. If he didn't come with her, he'd ask about him and sometimes wonder if Harley was lost. Dementia was slowly creeping into my father's brain.
Pomeranians sometimes have a problem with a collapsed trachea that causes frequent coughing and eventually reduces their quality of life. He lived for a year after my father died. It was difficult for my mother to lose a dog she had become so fond of, but life with her new husband has lessened the grief of losing Harley.
There's nothing like the unconditional love of a dog. Looking back on my Dad's life, I'm glad he at least found love with his two beloved dogs.
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