Dan's Papers - October 31, 2008

For many children, the first introduction to death is the loss of a pet. Like every major event in a child's life, it creates an opportunity for parents to provide children with valuable tools for dealing with issues that may arise throughout their lives. When we lost our family dog, an extraordinary, deep-red Golden named Ruby, when she was 9 1/2 and our son was four, it was the first time we visited the topic as a family.

Much of our pre-child life was dictated by Ruby's needs. "We should go to the park, Ruby needs to run." "Let's have dinner at home after the movie, Ruby will be lonely." Then we had our son. When we brought him back from the hospital, this sweet, gentle dog suddenly looked like the big bad wolf. But soon we got comfortable, trusting her with the baby. In fact, as most parents of toddlers know, it's the family pet you have to worry about. But Ruby was forced to take her place as the family dog, no longer the favorite child.

By the age of one, Hudson had created his own relationship with Ruby - lying on her belly, sitting on her back, using her to hold onto when he tried to stand. We never got a baby walker - Ruby filled that role. She helped him feel comfortable in the pool when he was a bit older. He'd throw a ball, hold on to her fur, and take a ride back and forth. As an only child, Hudson found a comrade and playmate in Ruby. And she had a full time "littermate." It was a match made in heaven.

Several years before Hudson was born, I wrote a children's musical inspired by Ruby. I had to drop the project after his birth, but got it back on track when the Children's Museum of the East End in Bridgehampton became interested in presenting it. So while Hudson played in his playroom with Ruby, a stream of actors in the roles of cats and dogs came to the house for musical rehearsals, singing about her. Celebrated in story and song, she must have grown to mythical proportions in his eyes.

Then, 10 days after the second performance we learned that she suffered from a very aggressive cancer. We left her in a pen at the Animal Hospital in Riverhead, where she would have an operation and we'd find out the details of her conditions. We kissed her and sang "We'll see you in a few days" - lyrics right from a song in the play.

It was the last time we all saw her. My partner and I were so bereft after the call from the hospital that we had to wait a few days to pull ourselves together to tell Hudson. In the meantime, as we decided how to break the news, we told him she was still at the dog hospital.

We vacillated. Should we just keep saying she's sick? That she had to go to another place where they could take care of her? We finally decided to tell him the truth: Ruby had a very bad sickness. The doctors did all they could, but couldn't save her. She was now in the spirit world. Before we broke the news, I tried to reassure myself that because he was so young, maybe he wouldn't take it that hard.

I was wrong. When we told him, Hudson let out a primitive wail, then cried for the next hour - which of course, broke our resolve. "Why couldn't they make her better?" he said. "They don't have the medicine to cure what she had," we answered. "We have medicine here!" he wailed, and ran toward the bathroom. We assured him we didn't have it - that while people and animals recover from most illnesses, doctors are still working on the cure for a few.

This is where there was a bit of hope. Knowing how much our son loves science, we suggested that maybe, when he grew up, he could become a vet and help find a cure. This gave him some relief - a sense of power, I think. He'd pull himself together for a few minutes, but then the mourning would overtake him again.

The following weeks were painful for us all. But my partner and I felt that, while we didn't want to hide our emotions, we needed to control them somewhat so we could be strong for him. We decided to let him lead the way. More on that, and how to help a child deal with the loss of his best friend, in the next column.