Part One: The Dog
In 1989 my son brought home a dog. A mutt — brown, one ear up, one ear down. He had found her behind the grocery store. He was twelve. He named her already.
I told him we couldn’t afford it. That was a lie. I spent thirty-five dollars a week on cigarettes. I could have fed a dog. The truth is I was tired and I didn’t want the responsibility.
I made him drive with me to the shelter. He didn’t cry. That was worse.
He held her in the back seat the whole way. Didn’t say a word. Just kept his hand on her head, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her. When we got there, I parked and told him to stay in the car. I went in alone. Filled out the paperwork. Paid the fee. Walked out without looking back.
He was still holding her when I came out. I had to pry his fingers loose.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
We drove home in silence. He stared out the window the entire way. When we pulled into the driveway, he got out and walked to his room and closed the door. He didn’t come out for dinner.
I told myself he would get over it.
He never did.
My son is forty-seven now. He has never owned a pet. Not a dog, not a cat, not a fish. Last month I wrote him a letter and mailed it with a collar I bought at the hardware store and a receipt. The receipt is a donation to the same shelter in his name. The letter says…
—
Part Two: The Letter
“I’m sorry.”
I wrote those two words at the top of the page and then sat at my kitchen table for an hour trying to figure out what came next.
What came next was the truth.
I told him I lied about the money. I told him I was tired and selfish and didn’t want the responsibility of a dog. I told him I watched him hold that puppy in the back seat and I knew I was doing something wrong and I did it anyway.
I told him I had thought about that day for thirty-five years. Every time I saw a dog with one ear up and one ear down. Every time I saw a boy walking a dog. Every time I saw someone throw a stick into a lake and a dog go bounding after it.
I told him I was a coward.
I told him the collar in the envelope was for the dog I never let him keep. And the receipt was a donation to the shelter that took her in. Not to make up for anything. Just to say I remembered.
I told him I didn’t expect forgiveness. I just wanted him to know that I knew.
I mailed the letter on a Tuesday.
He called me on Thursday.
—
Part Three: The Dog He Kept
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
Silence on the line. I could hear him breathing.
“I got your letter.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“I named her Brownie,” he said. “Did you know that?”
I didn’t.
“I never told you. I didn’t think you’d care.”
“I care.”
“She was so small. She fit in my lap.”
His voice cracked.
“I think about her all the time. Every time I see a dog. Every time I see a shelter commercial. Every time someone asks me why I don’t have a pet.”
“What do you tell them?”
“That I travel too much. That my apartment doesn’t allow it. That I’m allergic.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I know.”
We stayed on the phone for another hour. Not talking about the dog. Just talking. About his job. About his wife. About the weather. About nothing.
At the end, he said something that surprised me.
“I’m going to the shelter this weekend.”
“What?”
“I’m going to adopt a dog.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve been sure for thirty-five years. I just never let myself do it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m going to name her something good,” he said. “Something happy.”
“Like what?”
He thought about it.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
He adopted a beagle mix that Saturday. Brown and white, with one ear up and one ear down.
He sent me a picture.
The dog was sitting on his couch, looking at the camera with her head tilted.
He named her Joy.
I printed the picture and put it on my refrigerator.
It’s still there.
—
