Accepting my stepdad as a father has never been difficult for me. I met him when I was three and it never mattered much that he wasn’t my biological dad because he was present, kind, and funny. He showed up to ballet dances, and took me out for gooey ice cream that always melted before I ate it. It’s difficult for me to remember a time before I knew my dad, and therefore difficult for me to remember a time before I knew Humphrey.
Humphrey, the animal constantly attached to my dad’s side. A black and white cocker spaniel and miniature schnauzer mix that my dad rescued as a puppy. The day I met him, my expectations were as high as the roof, formed by my love for Clifford the Big Red Dog books. I had never played with a dog before, but I wasn’t nervous. Looking into big brown eyes surrounded by fur, I swore we would be best friends. I ran to his side, and bent down to hug him. We were close to the same size, so it was as easy as putting on a glove that fits just right. A cuddly pillow for me to hold, a pillow that I was maybe holding too tightly.
After hearing a warning growl, I barely had time to react before his large paw swiped across my face, a sting following a few seconds after. I cried my eyes out to my mother, upset at something deeper than just the pain. She cradled my red face in her hands and tried to calm me. The rejection I felt bloomed in my chest, hurting more than Humphrey’s nails ever could.
After that, I avoided the dog. It’s not as if I hated him, I was just indifferent, and that was OK. As I got older my relationship with my dad grew, while my relationship with Humphrey stayed as it was. When my parents made the decision to move us all into a new apartment, they placed Humphrey’s bed close to my room, hoping that I would warm up to the idea of having a pet in my life.
Living With Humphrey
As I became older, it became clearer that I’m just not a fan of pets. I have respect for all animals, but I don’t enjoy them. While my parents always wanted to cuddle with Humphrey and sleep with him, I couldn’t stand the fur he’d leave on my bed. I couldn’t stand his breath when trapped in the backseat of our family car together, and I couldn’t stand the drool he would leave on my hand when excited to see me. Having to pretend to be in love with Humphrey made me feel worn out, and then guilty for even needing to pretend in the first place.
Still, I fed him every day, took him on afternoon walks, and gave him the occasional pat here and there. When coming home I rubbed under his chin, and then washed my hands to get rid of his damp fur’s smell.
As the years passed, Humphrey’s legs grew weaker and his walks became shorter. His food went untouched, and his toys abandoned. When he was 10, we found out that he had cancer. He underwent surgery to remove the tumor, and then entered remission. During this time, life moved the same way it always had. Humphrey was there, always there, for me to come home to, for me to feed.
His cancer came back two years later, and he started throwing up blood. It was brutal and saddening to see a sentient being suffer in such a way. More than that, it was startling. It had never really occurred to me that Humphrey, this big drooling inconvenience of a dog, wouldn’t be by my side forever. I had always known that Humphrey would die, all dogs die. But seeing him suffer in real time was a completely different experience than just knowing what was to come.
Humphrey passed away when I was 14, and I didn’t cry. My dad held Humphrey as the vet put him to sleep, and then placed him in a white cardboard box. We drove into the forest upstate and dug him a hole far in the woods, then covered his box with dirt, rocks, and sticks. It was a beautiful place to rest, there was a river nearby and the trees allowed for nice shade. My parents both cried, I could tell that our family would be a little broken for a while. We went around saying things we loved about Humphrey. My mom had tears in her eyes when she spoke about how much joy he brought to our family. My dad’s face looked tired when he spoke about Humphrey’s loyalty, his innocence, and how good a boy he was.
I felt awkward, not because what I was saying was a lie, but because I could tell I wasn’t experiencing the same feelings they were.
I knew that it was my turn to speak. I hesitated before saying that he was an adorable dog. I felt awkward, not because what I was saying was a lie, but because I could tell I wasn’t experiencing the same feelings they were. When the sky started to darken and the air grew colder, we left. I accepted that Humphrey was no longer there to greet me when I came home, no longer there to whine and beg for scraps of greasy foods.
A week later I found my dad crying in our living room. I felt like comforting him would make me a fraud, someone pretending to understand how he was feeling even though I didn’t. Instead, I made some tea and casually slid it towards him.
I was familiar with all-consuming grief, which is what I felt when my grandma passed. Her death when I was 9 had been the loss of girl talks, late night phone calls, and way too expensive Christmas gifts. The devastation was there, the knowledge that I would no longer be able to visit her broke me. The days following my grandma’s death were spent in tears, with my mother nearby to share the pain. Days felt longer and heavier. The weight of my loss found a way to creep into every corner of my world.
With Humphrey, it was different. My parents were still grieving, but they had each other to share that grief. For me, there were no tears, no heavy days and no heartbreak. And to me, that meant that the grief itself didn’t exist. But sometimes I would look over, and feel a sense of surprise when the little corner he slept in was empty. The emptiness of the corner always made me feel a little bit lonelier, like the space needed to be filled with something in order for it to feel like home.
A Different Kind of Grief
On a casual sunny Sunday, about two weeks after his passing, that subtle sense of unease became a roar. Most days when Humphrey was alive, I would wake up reluctant to feed him. I’d considered it a chore for most of my life. As a pescitarian, I got queasy handling the slabs of meat Humphrey loved. Yet I never failed to thoroughly mix his dry food and wet food together, every single morning.
On this Sunday, I took out his dog bowl from behind the counter and turned to the fridge to start the process of fixing up his bowl. A ceramic bowl, chipped and cracked at the edges from years of use, proof of the long life Humphrey had lived. I paused as I stared at it, and the apartment seemed to pause as well. My mouth formed a small o, the only physical sign of my inner shock. There was no food for me to fix. And no dog for me to feed.
Embarrassment gradually seeped into my chest. How silly of me to wake myself up in order to feed a dog who no longer existed. Emotions punched me: dismay, unease, and most unexpectedly, grief. Grief for a dog that, in my mind, I had never thought I would grieve. An understanding passed through me for the first time, I would never feed Humphery again. The chore that I had always hated suddenly didn’t seem all that bad.
I thought back to the day Humphrey had died. When we buried him I had praised his cuteness, and I hadn’t thought much of it. But now, that statement felt more truthful than ever. I remembered how he would tilt his head when looking at me, how it made me laugh. I remembered the way he would roll over and stick his tongue out, how he would get super excited when my dad bought new toys for him. I was suddenly hit with a sense of clarity—I had genuinely liked parts of Humphrey.
Looking into the empty bowl, I grieved the feeling of feeding my dog. I grieved the drool that would coat my hands. I grieved the fur that would stick to my clothes. I grieved his whines at the dinner table. I grieved waking up early just to give him a walk. My newfound sadness didn’t make my dislike for the drool and the fur and the whining any less true, but it made me understand that those feelings weren’t the only ones I had felt.
I wished that I had fully accepted Humphrey, drool and all. Maybe then I could have appreciated what made him important, not just to me, but to my family. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt as awkward at the burial, maybe I would have sat down next to my crying dad and said “I’m sad too.” Maybe we would have hugged, and shared the feeling together, even if it was a little different for each of us.
I realized I was never indifferent towards Humphrey, not truly. He was family, and he was annoying. He was cute, and he was gross.
Maybe if people can admit to the complexity of their feelings, then they won’t waste as much time ignoring the feelings. Just as love isn’t linear, neither is grief. What my parents felt for Humphrey was and will always be a different experience than what I felt for Humphrey.
I grieved the dog I had grown up with in the way that I could, not in the way I assumed I should have. And that doesn’t make my grief any less real—grief isn’t always loud. It isn’t always glaring at you in the mirror, or waving outside of your door. Grief can be so small that you don’t even feel it, and then suddenly so strong that you’re on the verge of tears, standing silently over an empty dog food bowl.