Cudo
I never truly understood what it felt like to lose everything you ever fought to keep. I had grown up mocking people who spent their time grieving things they lost and people they cannot replace, wishing they would get over it and move on. My father approved of the notion, joining me in unison to contradict anyone who truly believed the only thing left to do when you've lost it all was to grieve. I even disowned my own father in a way when my mother died. The farm had fallen to ruin, all the animals were removed by the humane society, and my mother, the most cherished and important part of his life, died. He felt he had nothing left to live for but the box full of dust buried six feet beneath the ground. And now here I sit, a victim of my own mockery. I can't help but wonder what my father would say to me right now; "Serves you right, boy" or "Never deride that which you do not understand". Even now as my father lays dying, unable to speak or hear, he will not look at me. He won't even acknowledge my existence, for in his mind, he has no son, he has nothing. Just as the emptiness fills his soul, it fills mine. I never would have thought when I was younger that I'd be sitting atop a small hill, watching the sun slowly set above the rigid line of trees, holding the only thing I have left in my arms as it died. My dog, my companion, my best friend, the only thing I ever protested to having in my life, and the only thing I have left of my family. Lying here in my arms, Cudo is drawing her final breaths, struggling to live and ease my pain. I never have and never will understand her. With only three legs, she proved to me that disabilities mean nothing, and that looks mean even less. Each day was a struggle for my daughter after we got her, trying to get me to approve of her and to look at her as another child, instead of a meaningless mutt. The day my daughter fought me for her rights is forever stained in my memory, never to leave, never to be pushed aside.
"I said no, Alex, now stop asking!"
"But dad! You promised me we could get a dog!"
"A purebred, Alex! Who knows what kinds of diseases those mutts down at the pound carry."
"I'm diseased, did the doctors refuse me?"
"We aren't doctors, Alexandra."
"Doesn't mean they're the only ones allowed to save lives." Alexandra was just like her mother, she would never lose an argument. It was with regret that I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the hospital parking lot, making frequent checks on my daughter who sat in the backseat, fidgeting with her woven toque that concealed her bald head. I had been an avid believer that only purebred dogs were actually dogs, and that anything else was just a good for nothing hybrid. It stung my pride to even have the intention of driving close to the shelter.
"Alex, are you sure this is what you want? You said before you wanted to set up some agility stuff in one of the fields, and a purebred would do much better than a...a thing."
"You aren't gunna win, dad, so just give up now. This is what I want, I'd rather save a life than take one away."
"Alex, getting a purebred dog wouldn't be taking away a life."
"It so too would be! Every time you get a purebred puppy at least three die in the shelter, think about that dad!" She was cunning. I finally gave in, knowing there was no way I would win the argument. I wasn't ready to surrender my beliefs, I wasn't ready to take chances of this new addition to our home possibly killing my daughter out of fear, in fact, I don't think I was even ready for a dog in a the first place. I had promised my daughter a dog, any kind of dog she wanted, if she spent just a little while longer in the hospital so they could do more chemo on her, and I wasn't a man to go back on my promises. It pained me deeply to look at her, knowing that the doctors had just told me she didn't have much longer, that the chemo was failing and there was nothing left they could do. Just as she had argued for this dog, I had argued for her life. I had begged the doctors to resume the therapy on her, even if they knew it would do nothing to save her, I wasn't about to tell my daughter she had only months left to live. It was then, I realized, I had allowed my pride to come before anything.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"When do I get to stop going to the hospital?" And there it was. The only question that had ever brought tears to my eyes, the only question I had never wanted her to ask me. All my life I had kept up my motive to never lie, yet here I was, about to do just that.
"I don't know, Alex."
"Then what were you yelling at those doctors about?"
"Nothing, Alexandra, just never mind." I couldn't stand to deny her the truth, to hide from her that which she rightfully deserved to know. I couldn't stand looking back at her, seeing her eyes well up with tears. I wanted to just take away all her pain, I longed to just reach out and heal her, to spend even just an hour with her without her leukemia. I just wanted her to be a normal kid again.
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I will never forget the first moment I laid eyes on that shelter. The overwhelming sense of sickness at just the sight of it made me want to force Alex into getting a purebred, but I couldn't. She was the first one out of the car, bolting towards the big blue doors with small posters taped all over them.
"Hurry, daddy! Come on, please! Lets go! I can't wait! Faster!"
"I'm coming, Alex, I'm coming." I still cannot believe I ever made that walk from my Toyota Camry to an animal shelter. When you've owned nothing but the highest standard of purebreds, the helpless cries of animals in need hit you deep, they make you wonder how you ever made it through life oblivious to the needy. My father taught me when I was younger that dogs were like people; there are the rich, and the poor, and you damn well only choose the rich. Oh, how I wanted at that point in time to stick to that. The shelter doors were littered with "Missing" and "For Sale" posters, with pictures of any day ordinary house pets and three times mix-bred puppy pictures either printed or glued onto them. I wanted to leave right then and there, but my daughter had already opened the door and pulled me inside with her, asking the lady at the desk to see the dogs.
"What is it you two are looking for?"
"Anything cute!" Alex had blurted out. The lady led us into a back room, leaving us there alone to make our choice. I had never heard so many crying animals at once, nor had I seen so many cages in one room, all filled with animals looking for a home, of which most would never see one. The question that came next from my daughter's mouth hit me hard; "Daddy, why does this one only have three legs?"
"I don't know Alex." Just like every other dog and cat in that shelter, this one had a story. One that would never be told, one that would never be discovered, and one that she would never have to face again. There had never been any other time in my life when I could look into a dogs eyes and feel its pain. I had only been around dogs who had been hurt due to accident, I had never even seen one that had been purposefully abused. The thought of what this poor dog had been through made me sick. As Alex walked down the rest of the way, looking in all of the cages, I sat in front of this one dog, caught in the pitiful look of its eyes. There was something about this dog that I couldn't get. She looked to stand about 26 inches at her whithers, was pitch black in color with long, matted fur, and only three legs. Her ears were pressed fully back against her head and she was cowering, as if she was afraid of me. The dogs face was completely gray, and she seemed to have trouble standing. I didn't understand what I was feeling. I didn't know how I could fall in love with such an atrocity so quickly, let alone at all.
"What about this one, Alex?"
"You want that one daddy?"
"What do you mean?"
"I just didn't think you'd want that one, since it seems so...messed up."
"Do you want this one, Alex?" Her nod changed my life. I now had a dog that wasn't a purebred, that had God knows how many breeds inside of her, and that didn't come from a long line of champions. A dog that would never compete in shows, and that would never do agility. A dog that would give my daughter the smile I hadn't seen in years. I had adopted a dog that was ten years of age, with a face so gray you would never be able to tell it was once black. A dog that looked helpless, a dog that I never would have gotten, and a dog that my father never would have approved of me having.
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The next few months went by fast. I had taken time off work so that I could be at home all the time with Alexandra and our newest addition; Cudo. The bond between my daughter and this dog was immediate, there was never a time when the two of them weren't together. I remember the day they both came bounding into the house, Alexandra with her shirt all covered in purple paint splotches, carrying a sign that read "Alex and Cudo's Hill". They had discovered a hole in the fence on the far end of the farm, which had a hill on the other side that, if you sat on top of it, you could see the sunrise or sunset perfectly over the surrounding forest. That was then deemed their favorite spot, and if ever I needed to find them, I knew where to look.
Fear overcame me one morning when I woke to Alex in a coughing storm. She was crying and yelling for me between coughs, telling me it hurts too much and she didn't know what was going on. Cudo was the one who had woken me up, nipping my hand to alert me of the problem. As I carried Alex out to the car, Cudo had tried to jump in next to her, but I had denied her passage, telling her; "No, Cudo, dogs aren't allowed in the hospital. Stay here, we'll be back soon". That was the second lie I had told this year. I returned home at around midnight to find her lying at the end of the driveway, a worried and deprived look on her face. She chased me to the garage and into the house, whining the whole way, eager to stay by my side. I didn't have the strength to carry myself upstairs, or anywhere in the house, so I just fell down on the floor, allowing a stream of tears to finally caress my cheeks. Cudo immediately began to lick my face, cuddling right next to me.
"She's not coming home, girl. S-She's never coming home..." Lying there I began to recount my mistakes, everything I've ever done wrong, the things I thought I always did right. I thought of all the years I believed that I would be but a minuscule man if I ever owned something other than amazing. The times I believed I would never have tragedy strike me, that I would always be happy and perfect. I let my worries overcome me and my doubt prevail. "So this is how it feels, to have the most important thing to you taken away". Slowly drifting off into sleep, the last sound I heard was the quiet whimpers of Cudo's own mourning.
In the morning I woke to my head against the hard wood floor, and Cudo missing. I slowly stood up, and an overwhelming feeling of foreboding emanated in my gut. On the way out, I grabbed a framed picture of Alex and a shovel from the garage, then slowly made my way to the hill. I soon found Cudo lying on her side at the top of the hill. I looked up at the sky, the sun was just beginning to rise. I knew as soon as I was beside her what was going on. This dog, this angel rather, had been sent here for one purpose only; to help my daughter go home. Her job was complete, Alex was now safe up in heaven, and I down here wishing she wasn't. I sat down beside her and lifted her into my lap, stroking her black, dirt covered fur. I now knew the full feeling of losing everything. The full extent of pain a person feels when they realize they have nothing left is unbearable. My father was right when he told me never to mock that which I don't understand after my mother died. But he was also wrong. Dogs are not people. Never in my life have I met a human that could understand me perfectly, that would listen and not retort, that would give me such undying and undeterred companionship. Never in my life will I meet a human that can give and never receive, that will follow me wherever whenever, and that will love me to death no matter what I do. Never in my life will I ever have the same faith from a human, as I would a dog. John Holme's put it perfectly; "A dog is not almost human, I know of no greater insult to the canine race than to describe it as such". I once only knew the hatred of "imperfect" dogs, and now, as I dig a hole to lay my children to rest, I only know the belief that you will never get more out of a dog than you will from a shelter dog.
