***Posted in conjuction with Sprite’s Keeper’s Spin Cycle, the subject of which, this week, is pets. Swing by this post for more of the most pettingly pet stories on the internet.***
Sampson was our one—and only—family pet. {We know the biblical Samson’s name is spelled sans “p,” but our dog just…needed a “p” in his name. Silent letters are the best.} He was some sort of black lab mutt with no papers or notable lineage to our knowledge. He was nothing fancy. We were gifted him by some distant family member who moved out of state or something—he was two years old when he arrived at our place.
This isn’t Sampson. I don’t have any photos of our family pet, and I never thought that he was all that unique, but I just googled™ “black lab mix,” and none of the image results looked quite right. I should have taken pictures when I had the chance. Image from here.
At first, my sister and I were off-the-walls excited to have a dog. We promised our dad we would feed him, and walk him, and play with him, and wash him…and of course, that promise went the way of all empty childhood vows (right down the crapper with every other lofty ideal).
See, he wasn’t a frolicking puppy when we received him—he was huge, and didn’t mind his manners. He jumped on us, knocking us over; to make matters worse, he couldn’t do a single trick. Lame. To our childhood minds, he was a total dud.
I was the hyper sort of child that needed animals to do tricks for me if they were to earn my affection. Poor Sampson never really stood a chance.
At least, that’s what we thought for a few years, until one day he became a hero to us. Our house was broken into, and Sampson scared the burglars off lickety split. Oh, sure, we were terrified to sleep at night for months afterward, but we felt a little bit safer knowing that Sampson was watching over us.
Sampson hated men (except for my dad, who was the one who cared for Sampson the most), and he was mean about it. Burglars learned quickly, and we never had problems with them again.
Unfortunately for Sampson, the next ten years saw a decrease in neighborhood burglaries, and his heroism (at least in my immature mind) became virtually forgotten. He returned to being the pesky animal who never wanted to go outside (can’t say as I blame him, in this Arizona heat). Any chance he got, he’d squeeze through the door and take off, and it was always my job to chase him down. He wasn’t easy to catch. I remember thinking in ninth grade (grade nine, Canadians!) that he was getting old—his days were numbered.
But still, he lived. A few months later, he got hit by a car on one of his escapades {the night of my sister’s junior year homecoming date, if I do recall correctly [I always recall correctly]}. I was floored when my parents actually forked out the thousands of dollars to nurse him back to health.
“I would never blow my money on a stupid dog,” I thought that day. “He just had to go cavorting through the neighborhood—it serves him right.” I was coarse, even as a teenager.
It would be another six years before Sampson really died. The end was rough for him, and me. During the course of his life, we had added on to our house, and a new concrete patio was poured right outside my bedroom window. I grew to recognise the munch-munch-crunch sound of Sampson having a midnight snack only a few feet (and a wall) away from me. I never acknowledged how secure his crunching made me feel each night as I drifted off to sleep. Living in the room closest to Sampson’s food bowl really did make me the most protected member of my family.
As Sampson’s health dwindled away to nothing, I would lay awake at night listening to his mournful whimpers. Over time, the whimpers became heart-wrenching yelps, as Sampson became physically unable to step up the three-inch ledge from the lawn to the porch. I couldn’t stand it. Every night for a week, I’d go outside and help him up to the step. He was heavy, and the action exhausted both of us. While I was outside, he’d rest his head, with age-grayed whiskers, feebly in my lap. We’d sit there for a long time, Sampson and me. I just petted his fur and patted his head; tears streamed down my face as I chastised myself for a lifetime of basically ignoring the family pet who always loved me anyway. My beloved grandpa had died earlier that year, I was planning a wedding that would take me hundreds of miles away from the only place I’d ever called home, and Sampson was dying in my arms.
It was a really emotional year for me. And by “really emotional,” I mean the fact that I started birth control that same year really didn’t help things. Hello, hormones, come right in; won’t you stay a while?
The day we put him to sleep, I could hardly believe how much I cared. When had I grown so soft? It wasn’t like me. That dadgum dog turned me into a sap, and I don’t even like dogs. I vowed, that very night, that I would never get attached to another animal—I’d save my love for humans in the hope that I’d never again have to hurt so bad for a creature that couldn’t even say goodbye to me.
And then I mourned. I mourned good and hard. It’s embarrassing to confess this on my blog—the hard boiled side of me knows it’s ridiculous to care so much. I didn’t even really love him until those last pathetic months—well, that’s not true. I loved him all along, but I didn’t show it until it was pretty much too late.
If all dogs really do go to Heaven, I’d very much like to see Sampson (providing I make it there myself {which is unlikely, the way I treated the poor old fella all his life}). I need to make amends.
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