Childhood Experience

I come from a long line of animal lovers. Ever since I can remember, my father has been telling fantastic stories about pets that he has had. He and his six brothers have had more pets than Wild Kingdom. From guinea pigs to tarantulas, they've had them all. Although we as a family enjoy pets of all types, there is one standout that every true Rich admires. It is the dog. Not a week goes by without Dad telling a miraculous story of how his dog Duke took on three others, or of how Baron swam a half mile out into the Boston Harbor after him while he was fishing. I can hear him and my uncles now, "Duke would have torn Chan to shreds", or "Lucky was the best hunting dog ever, I don't care what you say." They actually argue over which poem is better, "Rags" or "Bum", both of which are required literature in my family. Certain uncles prefer certain breeds of dogs, but for the most part, any old breed will do. I am no exception to this rule.
When I turned eleven (up to this time I had seen at least six family dogs come and go), I received the greatest gift an eleven year old boy could wish for. Yes, a puppy, but not just any puppy. This was my own personal dog. He was a jet black mutt, the son of my family's Labrador Retriever, and he was as handsome as any pedigree show dog. His huge paws represented power and future size. So, branded with this stature, I gave him the only name that truly fit: Geronimo.


Geronimo and I were inseparable. I fed him, took care of him, house-trained him, and played with him. He also kept up his end of the bargain and was nothing but faithful and loyal to me. Every morning, rain or shine, he was right by my side accompanying me on my paper route. Some customers would actually leave tips for me and a dog biscuit for him. For a young guy he was very brave, and when older friends would play around and wrestle with me, he'd show his teeth and growl-- although he knew enough not to bite anyone. His one fear was of cars and he liked to hide under my legs whenever a noisy one passed by.
One spring day I stayed home from school because I was sick, and let Geronimo out by himself. This wasn't uncommon; he had been going out on his own and palling around with my family's dog ever since I had gotten him. But this day was different. I sat on the couch watching a t.v. show when there was a knock at the door. It was one of the neighbor's children. He was very young and didn't know any better when he told me that Geronimo was hit by a car and was asleep in the middle of the street. A cold chill went down my spine as I looked into the street at the ball of fur who lay there coldly with his eyes open and his back broken.
I think I was in shock because I didn't say anything. An older friend happened to walk by and saw what happened. I'm not sure what I would have done if he hadn't arrived. We wrapped Geronimo in a blanket and carried him into my yard. Amazingly, when my friend left I just went back into the house and continued watching my t.v. show as if nothing had happened. I was confused and angry with myself for being so cold-hearted but I didn't know what else to do.
Then, about two hours later, with some sort of strange coincidence my parents both arrived home at the same time from work. Suddenly, as I began to tell them the story, it hit me all at once. I couldn't even finish the story I was so choked up, and finally I just dragged them outside to see the dog. My mother kept saying, "It'll be alright, you can get another one soon." But I wouldn't hear of it. At the time I didn't ever want to see another dog again, never mind own one. By the time I regained my composure, my father and brother had already begun burying Geronimo. So I said a prayer and a goodbye to my best friend.
That whole day everyone in my house was quiet and to themselves. And I've come to realize that they weren't grieving for the dog as much as they were for me. Knowing that I was sad made them sad too. I had never seen that side of my father before, or my brother for that matter. My father always says to this day that I should be careful because if I were to die in an accident, I wouldn't suffer as much as the people who are left behind. As I think about Geronimo, I can understand what he means.
I think the reason that I didn't cry the minute I found him lying there is because I was too young and wasn't independent enough to handle it on my own. As soon as my parents arrived I had a feeling of comfort and safety and couldn't hold up the facade any longer. Geronimo lived a short life but left a big impression on me. I wasn't old enough to handle death on my own, but that six month old mutt was sure old enough to teach a young boy about the facts of life and death.