Tag Archives: Family

October 12, 2010 · 10:38 PM

All Dogs Go to Heaven

I promised myself I wouldn’t write another post involving a dog for at least a year, but sometimes life overwhelms promises.

On Saturday morning I got a phone call from my mom telling me that Belle had died in her sleep.  I’ve written about Belle before, and how I have a special affection for her because she’s been in our family since I was 14.  However, I didn’t expect that affection to translate to unstoppable tears at her passing, but it did.

After writing several semi-heartless posts about not wanting to get a dog, it was surreal to feel absolutely heartbroken at the loss of one.  I’ve heard people always say that their dogs aren’t just pets, they are family members, and on Saturday I really understood that.

Part of what is so special about Belle is that we always maintained that she was a good dog because she knew that we had rescued her.  My parents were taking a walk around the neighborhood in 1998 and saw a very cute puppy being walked by its owner.  They stopped to pet the dog and discovered that the owner wasn’t the owner at all, but rather someone who had found the puppy after it had been shoved under a fence from a neighbor’s yard.  This person told my parents they were planning to take the puppy to a shelter since she couldn’t keep it, and instead my parents said they wanted her.

You can imagine our surprise when my parents walked up to our house after their short walk around the block and had a puppy in hand.  None of us hesitated to say YES to this dog.

(I wish I could post a picture of her at that age, but this was 1998 and the only photos my parents have are on actual film.  It’s so strange to think about not having a digital photo to post.)

Ever since that fated beginning, she was as loyal as they come.  She was razor-sharp smart, fiercely protective of our family and home, and a freakishly skilled fetcher.  She was the kind of dog of which all dog-lovers dream.

I didn’t realize the full extent of that protectiveness until part way through high school.  I went to Homecoming with my date and we came back to my parent’s house after the dance.  My parents had already gone to bed, so my date and I walked in the front door and turned to see Belle standing at the top of the staircase.

Like a lion, she slowly crept down the steps, one by one.  She never took her eyes off of my date.  He looked at me nervously and I reassured him Belle wouldn’t attack him, but actually I wasn’t so sure.  As we walked further inside we heard a low, threatening growl and we froze in place.

My date said, “I don’t think, um…maybe I should just go.”

I couldn’t help but smile.  Belle, despite being a lady, was the older brother I never had.

In the last two years she slowed down considerably, no longer able to fetch the ball across the yard.  She also became somewhat incontinent, yet my parents never wavered in their care for her.  I once commented that they were incredible in ways that so many pet owners might not be — they refused to put her to sleep because they honored her life no matter the inconvenience to themselves.

“I hope you remember this when I’m incontinent,” my mother joked, only half-joking.

Just last Thursday my mom was voicing her concern that Belle could die while they are in Israel next week.  She was panicked at the thought of it happening when they couldn’t care for her.  When my mom called and told me she had passed, she couldn’t help but note that this was Belle’s last act of loyalty; her last moment of grace that she would go when they could say goodbye.

I will say that I was absolutely stunned by the display of compassion from people in our lives.  My mom and I both shared on Facebook and through texts that we had lost Belle, and our friends and family could not have been more sympathetic.  I never expected people to care, especially about a pet many of them had never met.

It certainly jolted me out of my dog apathy, because before I lost Belle I would only have said, “I’m sorry” to hear that a friend had lost a dog, and not known the pain they were going through.  I know better now.

In one of my more tearful moments, I turned to Mike and said, “Where is she?”

“Don’t you know?” he replied.  “All dogs go to heaven.”

I smiled at the sweet remark, and couldn’t help feeling comforted.  My mom glanced over at Griffey, her other dog, and said, “Just look at her.  You can’t tell me dogs don’t have souls.”

Either way, I can guarantee you she had spirit.

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September 11, 2010 · 10:04 AM

Happy New Year!

In the words of Death Cab for Cutie: So this is the new year.

Wednesday evening, as the sun went down, I couldn’t help but hear the holiday-themed hum in the back of my mind.  Sure, it’s not January 1; it’s September 8, but on the Jewish calendar it’s the High Holy Day of Rash Hashana — the first day of the year.

I’ve mentioned before that I married into a family who celebrates all the major Jewish holidays.  We observe whatever holidays Christ observed while on Earth.

Who wouldn’t want more holidays in their year?  Who would say, no, thank you, I have enough feasting and togetherness in my life?

In my limited years of celebrating I have learned that many of the Holy Days are, how should I say…somber.  Yes, there is always eating and togetherness, but there is also internal reflection, sacrifice, and repentance.

Rosh Hashana, however, is a hope-filled, joyful entry into fall.  It’s a celebration; apples are dipped in honey to remind us of God’s sweetness.  I can’t think of a happier autumn act.

“Shanah Tova” is Hebrew for “a good year”.  I always feel like a bit of a fraud when I say it, as though Jews around the world are cringing as it comes out of my Christian mouth.  This is why I tend to stick with “Happy New Year,” lest I offend.

This Holy Day, also known as the Day of Remembrance, is about remembering the Lord’s kindness before embarking on a ten-day journey of repentance ending on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

I asked my father-in-love to break this down for me — what’s involved in ten days of repentance?  He explained that you not only repent to God, but you fix all of your broken relationships on Earth.  You make amends with everyone before Yom Kippur.

And there’s a bonus:  you tithe generously to immediate family members.  Of course he had no sooner said this then we around the table started looking at him like he was about to whip out the checkbook.   Unfortunately, he did not.  Apparently it’s not just parents to kids; I think  I stopped listening when I realized it might be me that has to tithe.   (Judge all you want, but like you would have jumped in, eager pay your sibling 10% of your income?  Right.)

Traditionally during this dinner we would blow the shofar (ram’s horn), which is supposed to be blown each morning as a reminder that we are in a period of reflection and repentance.

We don’t blow it each morning, however.  We live in a condo building.  I’m not sure what we would say to the neighbor knocking on our door at 7AM, angry at the noise.  “Oh that?  That’s just our ram horn.”

What’s most incredible about gathering with the Rephs for these holidays is that the ritual and regard serves to move us all into a different state of mind.  Around that table, it’s as if we have pressed the elevator button for “Penthouse” because we move so much higher than our normal head space.  From that height we press our heads against the glass windows of the room and look down at the things of our lives: the decisions, the hurts, the exclamations, the minutia.  It’s much easier, from that standpoint, to examine with our binoculars what is worth focusing on.

I am mesmerized by my in-loves perspectives on faith and life.  My father-in-love can explain his thoughts on the Lord using scripture passages from memory, but he does so in an approachable way, not a scholarly snooze-fest.  My mother-in-love has such a grasp on faith in its truest sense; on what it is to wait for God’s direction.

All of our talks are peppered with Rachel’s and my persistent questions that force the theology to be tangible.  Neither of us is really satisfied by platitudes (not that any are necessarily offered at the table) and we insist on being taken seriously.  Lucky for us, everyone else around the table allows for this.  We always walk away with more to think about then when we began the meal.

And the meal is central, no doubt.  I don’t think there would be the conversation if it weren’t for the plentiful steaming dishes being passed between us.

I am overwhelmed by this heartfelt exchange with each passing Holy Day.  Though it is an apt reminder of God’s kindness, I find that it specifically reminds me of His kindness in providing this family for me, even though I already had a fantastic family.  Some of my girlfriends have married into less-than-ideal in-law situations, and each breaking of bread in the Reph clan reminds me that they are second to none.

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August 31, 2010 · 12:35 PM

Despite This, I Still Cry During Marley & Me

You know the rush of affectionate emotion you feel when you enter someone’s home and their dog comes to greet you?  

I rarely feel that.  

I do not know why this is; it’s as if while moving down the human-making assembly line I somehow skipped right past “affection for furry friends” and instead got a nice dose of “allergic to anything with hair.”  

That’s why I don’t feel too guilty about not adoring animals — I was programmed to reject them.  It’s not my fault.  

But I wish I did.  I wish I was one of those people.  I want to be the type of person who adores every kind of animal, large or small, attractive or not, smart or…otherwise.  

Instead, everyone else is always rubbing dogs from head to tail and I’m standing there like I have a black heart.  

Last weekend Mike and I house-sat for my parents while they were traveling, and that included the care of their two dogs, Belle (11 years old) and Griffey (10 months old).  

  

  

They are really good-looking dogs, and are probably the closest thing to a pet I would want.  In fact, my parents’ dogs have always won me over, probably because I knew them as puppies.  Even I can’t resist a puppy; I may have a black heart, but I’m not dead.  

Griffey at 12 weeks

The hiccup in my pet-aversion is the fact that I married not just a dog lover, but a dog OBSESSOR.  Mike is completely sold out for dogs of all shapes and sizes.  He will approach any stranger to befriend their dog and then turn to me with a child’s desperation and say “see?   How can you not love this?!”  

When we walk around the waterfront, I point out adorable children and he points out adorable puppies.  The difference is, I am admiring the children as gorgeous little people who are a pleasure to look at from a distance; Mike is looking at the dogs and silently choosing the breeds of future family members.  

On Saturday, in order for us to have a true doggie adventure with Griffey, we decided to visit the off-leash dog park at Marymoor.  Just to put Mike’s love of dogs in perspective: we have actually visited the dog park without a dog before, solely so Mike could get his fill.  For the record, it felt weird.  Kind of like visiting a daycare without a child.  Creepy.  

This time, dog in hand, we felt like we were card-carrying members of the dog-owner club.  We did the polite nod of acceptance with other dog owners as we proudly entered the park with Griffey.  It didn’t hurt that we had taken my mom’s Mini Cooper convertible to the dog park — we were flying down the freeway with the top down and a happy dog in the backseat.  Everyone stared.  And we all know that I love when everyone stares.   

We were walking along, basking in dog-pride, when a woman passed by and said with more attitude than necessary, “You’re brave to bring food into the dog park.”  No smile — just sass.  

Mike looked at me holding our Chipotle burrito bowls.  The thought of a picnic-in-a-dog-park conflict never crossed our minds.  We had just exposed ourselves as dog-owner fakes.  Rookie mistake.  

I’ll show her, I thought.  

I sat down on a rock and started to open the bag when three dogs came charging at me.  I jumped up, food in hand, while irritated owners called their dogs back.  “Sorry,” I mumbled.  “My bad.”  

Needless to say, I took the food back to the car.  

Griffey got along well with the other dogs, and garnered praise from other owners for being so beautiful.  Mike and I shuffled our feet in bashful pride; we didn’t think it necessary to tell them she wasn’t technically ours.  Why reject a decent compliment?  

The best part was taking her to the waterfront.  She didn’t hesitate to race down the steps into the water.  Every other owner was throwing balls into the water for their dogs to fetch.  I turned to Mike and said, “Oh my gosh.  It’s like we’re the awful parents who don’t buy toys for our child!  Griffey is humiliated!”  

For the next hour she avoided eye-contact with us like an 8-year-old kid getting out of the car for school.  Please, her face said, pretend you don’t know me.  

  

Somehow, she forgave us.  It may or may not have had something to do with the treats in our pockets.   

For proof that I morphed into a dog-liker in one weekend, look no further than my threads:  I am wearing sneakers with jeans.  That does not happen.  

For proof that my black heart is showing signs of color, look no further than this admission:  I miss the pups.  A little.

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