The original version of this article was my first published work and appeared in Dog & Kennel Magazine in June 2003.
Real Mean Do Cry
I was raised on a small ranch and spent most of my teen
years working on larger ranches around the region. Between that and hunting I
was very familiar with death, where the slaughter of livestock was common, and
pets were tools to help with chores such as herding cattle, rather than family
members to be loved. Crying over the
loss of animals was not welcome and often garnered the ridicule of one’s father
or older brothers. Because of this I
learned to keep my emotions in check as a “young man” was supposed to do. Yet, I realized quickly that feelings existed
and, though repressed, they came out on occasion, regardless of how “strong”
the man was.
On many occasions I watched my dad deal with horses who had
to be put down for a variety of reasons.
I was never allowed to be there when the vet showed up and they,
subsequently, walked the horse to a quiet place in the trees. When my dad returned, he showed no signs of
emotion, acting as if nothing had happened.
It was only in my teenage years that I saw how much a man can care for
an animal and grieve for it when it died.
One of our horses broke its leg while on a back country ride. Getting a vet there to euthenize the animal
was not an option given the time it would take.
The horse was in great pain and, sadly, my dad made the decision to
shoot the horse. It was the first and
last time I have ever witnessed such an event.
I had grown up hunting, so shooting an animal for food was part of my
life and didn’t bother me. Yet to see a
valued horse, a creature that I had spent countless hours with in the
mountains, shot, was traumatic to say the least.
What influenced me more was seeing how my dad reacted. As a
big, proud man, emotion was not something he showed often. He was a doctor, rancher and hunter, so he
saw death constantly and handled it as he was required to, calm and restrained,
never letting others see him cry. Yet
that day I saw this man, my dad, cry for hours over the loss of this
horse. That moment in my life demonstrated
to me that my emotions were normal, even for a man.
Some say that women and men handle emotions
differently. Women tending to be more open
and forthcoming with their feelings, a blessing really.
Men on the other hand, be it a result of society or genetic code, tend to keep their
emotions to themselves and often show them only to those within their circle of
trust. I learned that these emotions are
very intense and need to be released, and, most importantly, that to do so was
not an indication of weakness.
It was this acceptance of emotions that allowed me to become
involved with Rottweiler Rescue and to start Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue. It was while doing rescue and working with
the local shelter that I saw how the loss of pets affected those that loved
them. Seeing people come to the local
shelter with their family pets who had died had great influence on me. Since the shelter had the only crematorium
for animals in the county the number of such visits was high. Usually it is the veterinarians or their
assistants who brought the animals to be cremated after they have been euthanized. The owners are often too distraught to come
with them. Still, on occasion, the
owners themselves would bring their pet on their final ride. You can see it the moment they walk in; the
look of loss on their faces, the tear stains on their cheeks. Often the shelter staff helps them carry the
pet back to the crematorium when the grief and heartache are too strong for the
owner to do it alone. It was one of
these moments that confirmed my belief that real men do cry, and that there is
no shame in doing so.
It was winter, and I had just finished working with the
Rottweilers at the shelter. I was
walking out of the lobby when I saw the man come in. He was easily over six feet tall and two
hundred pounds in weight. Though it was
barely ten degrees outside, he wore only jeans and a thick flannel shirt. His clothing was work-worn, and his rough
hands and weathered skin told me his occupation was a hard one. He seemed a strong man, both physically and
emotionally, yet his face was solemn and fixed and you could see the pain
clearly in his eyes. His words to the
staff member at the front desk were typical of a man, particularly one from
Montana.
“My dog died.” No
quiver in his voice, and his face hardened with the three words exiting his
mouth.
The staff member handed him the
paper work as I ventured outside to head back to work. I shivered against the cold as I zipped up my
jacket, not thinking much about the man who had come in. Walking to my vehicle I saw the truck that
the man had driven up in. I could see
into the back but saw no dog. I wondered
if he had driven there with the dog up front.
I started my truck, and as I sat there letting it warm up I saw the man
come out, a shelter employee walking behind him.
I watched as they spoke and I knew what was being said. The employee pointed towards the back of the
building where the man would need to drive his truck in order to unload the
dog. The man shook his head and opened the
passenger door. I caught a glimpse of
the shape of a medium-sized dog on the seat.
The employee moved to help retrieve the dog but the man stopped
her. It was his task to do. She nodded and waited for the man to pull the
dog out. The limp body hung in the big
man’s arms. The dog weighed perhaps
fifty pounds, but the man showed no strain as he straightened up. Slowly, the stone features of his face began
to weaken. The employee walked along the
outside of the shelter toward the back door at the crematorium. The man followed.
I found myself fixated on this event playing out before
me. The man’s steps were slow and
deliberate. Each time his foot broke
through the six inches of snow his face grew more pained. This man could have easily let the employee
carry the dog, as so many people do, thus avoiding the heartache he was
enduring. Instead, out of honor and
love, he chose the task. If I had seen
this man on the street I would have never imagined him having such devotion and
love for a dog. Yet here he was, doing
perhaps the most painful thing he had ever done. The reason was evident. This dog was his companion, his friend, and
his actions were a final act of loyalty.
The man and his dog disappeared inside the crematorium. I thought of leaving, but instead waited to
see him return. In a minute the employee
and the man came out of the door. The
man’s face was hard again, but he was cordial to the employee as they
spoke. I saw him nod his head and walk
back to his truck. It was after he
climbed in the truck that I saw him wipe a tear from his cheek. He drove away and I left soon afterwards;
however, the scene was etched into my mind and soul.
While I never knew if the man wept more than I had seen, it
didn’t matter. The grief and devotion I
saw that day spoke more of what a real man is than perhaps anything else. Since that day I have had to take that same
walk eight times after being with my dogs in that final moment. It was the least I can do for them, given the
unlimited love and devotion they have given me.
And on that last walk, I, a man, unapologetically cried. It is, after all, the manly thing to do.
If you love the bond and devotion between dogs and humans, check out my novels.
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