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Cali the dog

My Dog is a Racist

I need to get this difficult family situation off my chest. The picture above is our dog Cali. She is a black & white cross between a border collie and an Australian cattle dog.

Cali has a problem with little white dogs. She hates them. Just because they’re white. We’ve tried to reason with her, and do our best to teach her about diversity, the need to coexist and the importance of loving all dogs equally. Our mantra is that she needs to appreciate what’s on the inside, that character matters above all else. We endlessly encourage, scold, preach & lecture…to no avail.

Nothing we do has made any difference. We fear that her belief system may be permanently ingrained in her psyche. This pains us to admit, but…

Our dog Cali is a black & white supremacist.

You Got Kids?

So…Do You Have Kids?

Asking someone whether they have kids is one of the most over-used conversation starters. It is usually asked without even thinking, as though the banal question might have no consequences. Maybe we should give this thoughtless question more thought.

Hey, not everyone has kids. And, there are many reasons for that. Maybe they simply don’t want kids, and they know that anyone who kicks off conversations with such a question might not easily understand that. So, that’s a topic best avoided in polite conversation, as with religion or politics. Maybe their reasons for not having kids are very personal, or even deeply troubling. The topic of children should then be avoided at all costs. Why take the risk of causing anyone harm when simply getting to know them for the first time?

This question is usually asked automatically by people who have kids, looking for others with whom to discuss kids. The question assumes that having children is so much more common than not, that the answer will most certainly be yes. This strong assumption only exacerbates any concerns of the person being asked. So, why is this question even acceptable? Why are we so polite to people who start conversations this way? Maybe we should make a pariah of this question, and drive it into an exile of well-known unacceptability.

Even if the person being asked does have kids, unless they respond with a unique & creative observation about their children, the question usually kicks off one of the most mundane conversations known to man. It could lead to feeding schedules, carpooling, youth sports, braces and sleepovers. Maybe even hobbies that can’t hold kids’ attention for more than a month, and whether their pet gerbil/hamster/turtle/snake/parakeet/goldfish lasts any longer than the hobby. Well done. Banality at its best. Bravo.

And…what if the answer is no? No…I don’t have kids. The person asking the question has done so without thinking, and usually isn’t prepared for that. Now the topic needs to be changed quickly and awkwardly. No fun for anyone. Excellent work. But, even this tension won’t deter everyone. At a party, I once overheard the follow-up question; “Well, do you plan to have children?” Now, how is THAT acceptable? We all know not to ask a plump woman whether she’s pregnant. If she’s not, you’re automatically a jerk. We also wouldn’t ask a plump person whether they’ve lost any weight. No? Well, are you trying to lose weight? C’mon now. Somehow, we don’t dare cross that line, but we do cross the line when it comes to whether someone has children.

Sure, there are lots of people who have children. You could strike up a nice conversation with any one of them about their kids, if they weren’t completely sick of them that day. Yes, it’s okay to admit you get sick and tired of your kids, even though most people won’t. But, there also many, many people without children. That may or may not be their choice. Why would anyone take the risk of stepping on that conversational landmine when just casually getting to know someone?

Consider this…remember that awful story about the kid snatched by an alligator at Disney World? They found him dead a few days later. Those parents are out there. Somewhere. I forget how long ago that happened. But, to them, it probably feels like it was just yesterday. How would one feel after asking THEM…so…you got kids? I hear awful stories every day of kids getting hit by cars, falling off amusement park rides, getting attacked by dogs, succumbing to illness, drowning, suicide, whatever…and those parents are all out there, too. Just waiting to get hit with that dreaded question upon first meeting someone.

There are also many people trying to have kids, and they’ve been trying unsuccessfully for a long time. Maybe they’ve been spending every spare dime on in vitro fertilization, and it hasn’t worked. Every month they get the same horrible news, like a gut-wrenching Groundhog Day. Maybe they’ve endured multiple miscarriages. Maybe this is tearing their marriage apart, and they’re despondent. They’re suffering more silently than the parents from the tragic Disney World story. But, they could be suffering just as much. They’re all out there, too. Just waiting to get hit with that horrible question.

There are also many people going through bitter divorces. Maybe it involves a massive custody battle which they would only discuss openly with their closest friends & family. If a stranger asks this person if they have kids, the answer is of course yes. Great! We have so much in common! Next comes the barrage of follow-up questions about age, gender, where they go to school. All easy enough to answer. But, if the custody battle has driven a wedge between the parent and their kids, deeper questions about recent likes & dislikes can become painful. Sure, they have kids, but maybe they don’t have all those answers, which can be painful and embarrassing. These poor folks are out there, too.

Then, there are those who have chosen not to have kids. Probably the least understood by those who would ask this question without thinking. I once heard a brave woman at a party answer the question with a quick “Oh hell no. No, no, no thank goodness!!” Good for her. She obviously had that shut-down answer at the ready after being asked so many times.

Try this…Why not ask about someone’s greatest passions outside of work? Or, simply ask what they do for fun? They’re not forced down a conversational path about either work or children…the two-headed monster of boring getting-to-know-you conversation. If they choose to respond with “my children” or “my career” then go with it. The green light has been given. But, if they start talking passionately about painting, beekeeping, flying planes or racing cars…well, isn’t that far more interesting? And, it’s clearly what they would rather talk about anyway, which is what starting a conversation is all about.

If you don’t think any of this is an issue, then maybe you’re completely surrounded by people who live their life exactly the way you do, and it’s all about the kids for everyone in your circle. That’s absolutely wonderful. Nothing wrong with that whatsoever. But, it’s good to be aware of that when leaving the parent bubble and you decide to ask the question. And, if you simply can’t stop yourself because this what you want to talk about most…then maybe you should only ask “so…do you have kids” when you already know the answer is a happy and enthusiastic YES.

Baby Rattled

Shaken Baby

Why is violently shaking a baby getting passed off as a syndrome? Shaken baby syndrome. That makes baby murder sound so much more nuanced, like there are victims on both sides of the situation. C’mon man! It’s murder. Call it what it is.

See…If I light you on fire…don’t worry, I won’t. It’s okay. But, for the sake of argument, let’s just say I light you on fire. I’m going to jail for a long, long time. Because, I tried to kill you. Murder or attempted murder. Not arson. Arson means something else entirely. And, if you just suddenly burst into flames on your own…well, we call that spontaneous combustion. We’re not even really sure if that exists. But, to say “spontaneous combustion” certainly frames it in a very guiltless, faultless manner. It just happened. It’s absolutely tragic that you died a fiery death and now you’re all crispy. But, there’s no implication that I or anyone else did it. It was an event. It just happened. Spontaneously.

Maybe I’m alone in this, but we seem to be labeling something a spontaneous event when we allow it to become a “syndrome.” A baby doesn’t just start shaking spontaneously unless it’s having a seizure or it’s possessed. Those events have their own names, too. Demonic possession is just that, and it has a cause. They’re called demons. With shaken baby syndrome, however, someone had to grab that baby, and shake it. Really hard. While labeling baby murder as a “syndrome” won’t get the guilty baby shaker off the hook…the softening, the nuance, just strikes me the wrong way, as though sympathy should be our primary response…

“Their baby fell prey to the syndrome. Those poor people. Their baby got the syndrome. The syndrome visited that house in the dark of night. Does this plague have no mercy? It could have been any one of us. Here’s a check from Medicaid to pay for your grief counselling.” Yeah, yeah, I know I took a leap there. But, let’s call murder just that. Murder.

It’s the same way with SIDS…sudden infant death syndrome. This one is more of a mystery to me. How does that work, anyway? “So, let me get this straight, ma’am. Your baby was absolutely fine, and then suddenly it just stopped like a watch when the battery runs out? It just expired. Got it.” On your way then. So very sorry for your loss. Never mind that you live in a broken-down trailer with 6 other kids who are running to the store for your cigarettes and beer while you lay here and watch your stories. And, is that a crack pipe laying there? Nope. No suspicious signs here. That syndrome is a devious thief.

I mean if a guy is going through a horrible, nasty divorce and his wife is tragically befallen by sudden wife death syndrome or shaken wife syndrome…we have a name for that guy. The primary suspect. Take that baby out of the picture, and we become pretty damn clear about it pretty damn quick.

Taffy's Grave

Taffy Has Gone to a Better Place

It’s an old expression. A gentle way of saying somebody has died…when we say they “have gone to a better place.” By not offering specifics, we allow the recipient to imagine what that better place might be. Heaven. A beach. A rolling meadow, washed in sunshine with tall grass swaying in a gentle breeze. Whatever. They use their imagination to fill in the blanks and have happy thoughts about something horrible. Much easier on everyone.

When we hear that someone has gone to a better place, we also know we are supposed to agree that they indeed have gone to a better place. And, we also get the message to not ask any questions about what happened. We’ve been offered a platitude which clearly communicates that the details behind the situation may be too painful to share.

When telling a child that a relative or family pet has died, saying they have gone to a better place helps us avoid a conversation which might be too difficult for them to grasp. The thought of that person or pet no longer being with us is already difficult. That’s enough to deal with. There’s no need to burden the child with trying to understand that person or pet no longer exists at all, and that they may have endured pain in their final hours. Parents also tell their children the family pet has gone to a better place when they’ve had it put down by the vet. A child might not grasp the need for such a decision. They might accuse mom and dad of murder.

My mom and dad told me that our dog Taffy had gone to a better place. And, as many parents do in this situation, they embellished to help me out. They described a wonderful farm to which they had sent Taffy in New Hampshire, near where we spent our summers there. I didn’t know the “the farm” was such a typical story with dead dogs. And, they knew the concept wouldn’t be too foreign to me, even as a city kid. They knew I loved New Hampshire. Taffy was now at a farm with chickens and sheep for him to chase all day long. He could run free. Taffy always was a country dog, they reminded me. A big yellow lab that was raised in open spaces by my grandfather. When my grandfather died, we took Taffy to Chicago. They reminded me that Taffy never seemed happy in the city. He hated being on a leash. He was always running away.

They did a pretty good sales job on me. While I was really upset that Taffy was no longer around for me to play with, I knew they were right. I was actually walking Taffy on our street just a couple weeks before. When I knelt down to tie my shoe, he ran away. I chased after Taffy, yelling his name. He didn’t even look back or slow down one bit. He bolted as fast as he could, and turned the corner before I’d even run thirty feet. I knew he loved me. But, he still ran away from me the first chance he got. So, yeah, we all agreed that Taffy wasn’t very happy in the city. I embraced the idea of the wonderful farm, and Taffy running free…chasing those chickens and sheep all day long. I got over his not being around pretty quickly. My visions of the farm helped me feel happy for Taffy. He was indeed in a better place.

About a week later, I was playing at my best friend Scott’s house. When I was going home for dinner, his mom was down on one knee, helping me put on my coat. I liked her a lot, and she liked me. She always said so. She always smelled nice, and was always very kind to me. I always wanted to hug her. So, I always let her get close to me.

She was leaning in close, her face just a few inches from mine. After my coat was on, she was straightened my hair, and asked me in a soft voice how Taffy was. She liked Taffy a lot. So, I happily told her that Taffy was now in a better place. He was on a wonderful farm where he could chase the other animals all day long. Lots of open space, where he would be happier. My parents had taken him there. I was too young to understand why her face changed so suddenly. I didn’t understand her expression. She instantly went from soft and caring to sickly. I didn’t get it at all. I thought maybe she was going to be sick, and I was worried about her. And, even though she was probably about to throw up, she also seemed very worried about me. I never forgot that moment. It would keep coming back to me over the years. I eventually grew to understand exactly what had happened.

I eventually grew to understand there was no Santa, Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. I eventually grew to understand that the reassuring story about “the farm” was just a common dodge for parents to get out of a tough conversation about dead dogs. Just as common as saying someone “had woken up on the wrong side of the bed” to avoid saying they’re being a total asshole today….or every day. I was long over Taffy’s departure when I learned all this. So, I never asked my parents why they had lied to me. What’s the point? I had also grown up to understand the concept of a white lie. I know my parents would do everything they could to avoid being accused of murdering our dog. But, I also know they wanted me to be happy for Taffy. They wanted Taffy’s departure to be easier for me. I understand that. So, why bring it up? But, none of this ever faded away for me.

The reason it always stayed on my mind was because of that moment at my best friend Scott’s house. That sudden change in expression on his mother’s face, so close to mine. That sickly look, when her soft face turned hard, and all the lines in her face were sharp. As I eventually learned about the common “farm” dodge for parents who’ve just put down the dog, I understood her reaction. That poor woman. I had learned what it feels like to wish you hadn’t said the worst possible thing. I had learned what it feels like to see that someone is being a gullible fool, they’ve clearly been lied to, and they’re living in a dream world. I had learned what it feels like to be the first one to tell a kid…there is no Santa Claus.

I had also learned that I have a pretty dark sense of humor. So, the fact that I had so effusively shared my parent’s lie with Scott’s mom is pretty damn funny to me. Here’s this kid in front of her, so happy to share that his parents have murdered his dog. He’s repeating one of the most common phrases to describe a dog’s death, and he has no idea what he’s saying. He sounds like a complete idiot. She was just innocently making conversation with a child and stepped on a land mine. She must have really felt awful, and wished she could just vanish. She was probably thinking that even this idiot child would now suddenly figure out what had really happened to his dog, just by hearing his own stupid response to her innocent question. She winced after hearing the “click” when she stepped on the mine. She was clenched, waiting for the explosion when I suddenly figured out the truth. But, nope. She didn’t get blown up. She was safe. I’m a moron. I didn’t figure it out until years later.

My parents are getting older now. And, lately, I’m always sharing my memories with them. I’m in that whole “don’t let anything go unsaid” relationship with them. I turned 50 this past year, so that’s a lot of history to share. While at their dinner table a few months back, I suddenly remembered that moment with Scott’s mom. I chuckled while taking a sip of wine and asked them if Scott’s mom had ever said anything to them about that time after they had put Taffy down, when she and I had this awkward moment together. She must have told them, because she felt like total hell. She was probably worried that she was the reason I would figure it all out sooner than I was supposed to.

My parents looked at each other, then turned back at me…Put Taffy down? What do you mean put Taffy down? No, no, no…we took Taffy to a wonderful farm in New Hampshire. A truly wonderful place where he could run free, chasing the other farm animals all day long. Chickens. Sheep. Such a wonderful place.

I put my glass down hard…C’mon guys. Enough with the bullshit. I got over this years ago. I’m fifty years old now! Stop treating me like a child. Taffy was getting old. You had him put down. And, just like telling me to be good or Santa wouldn’t bring me any presents…you soothed me with the most common “in a better place” story ever. The old “farm” dodge? C’mon guys. I’m not stupid. Why are you still keeping this up, even now?

No, Dan. Really. You know Taffy wasn’t doing well in the city. He was always a country dog. He was suffering in Chicago. He went to a farm on Gardner Hill Road in Tamworth, New Hampshire. We had met the people during one of our summers there. Lovely people. They loved dogs, and they really loved Taffy. We visited with them a bunch of times, and Taffy simply loved it there. We let him stay over a few times, eventually for a week at a time. He was so happy. It was a much better place for him. We knew it was the right thing to do. And, we didn’t want to get into it with you. A clean break. We knew when we left him there, he truly was indeed in a better place.

I stared at my parents. They stared back at me.

I’ve grown up a lot over the years. I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve matured. I have much more self-control. I’m much more aware of who I am, and how I got here. I know my selfish tendencies. I know I can be deceitful and charming when I’m trying to get what I want. I might even lie a bit in the process. I’m honest about these traits I have. I also know where I got them. From these people.

These people…who are staring me down now…and sticking to their story.

Is this a test? Are they waiting to see if I really have grown up? Are they wondering if the immature Dan will surface, and loudly accuse them of being liars and murderers, rather than continuing the polite dinner conversation? Or…Are they wondering just how gullible I might still be, if maybe they can suck me back into believing the farm is real? Or…Maybe they just don’t know how to back down from a lie, regardless of how ridiculous it sounds, even as the truth becomes obvious. Or…Or…Is the farm real? If I don’t trust them and accept that the farm is real, then maybe I am still just their child…only thinking and believing what I want to, just disagreeing with them to be difficult.

So…wait…Taffy really did go to a farm?

Yes. A much better place.

The farm is real?

Yes. It’s a real farm. Chickens. Sheep. Lot of open space for him to run. Chase the other animals all day long. A better place for Taffy. I’m sure you can imagine just how wonderful it is. I’m sure you can imagine how happy he must have been in such a place.

Huh. Okay. It does sound pretty nice.

Yes. It’s wonderful. We should all be lucky enough to go to such a place when we die.

Wait. WHAT?

Oh, never mind, Dan. The farm is real. The farm is real.