Dead Dog Philosophy.

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He asked me if I was sad as we buried the dog in the backyard.

My little brother and sister were crying. My mom was crying too. And he looked me in the eyes and tried to see sadness, because usually, you feel something when something beloved dies. And I loved that dog. He was the best dog I've ever had. He was the only dog I've ever had but that's beyond the point. And I'm the one who taught him tricks, when I was a baby, he was a puppy. And he lived a long life.

But I wasn't crying.

He looked at me and asked me, why aren't you crying? He was honestly flabbergasted and I think maybe even a little bit disgusted. Because usually, you show some sort of emotion. And I told him I'd explain later. And I said a few words about my dog and his doggy life, they sounded cliched and wrong. They sound like they had been said before. They were unnecessary but they were expected. So I participated in everyone's grieving and summed up his long doggy life with an extraneous accolade. And he just looked at me with that nonplussed look on his face. I sighed and threw one of the daisies on the dirt that covered the hole, and everyone else followed suit.

The house was tense with sadness, and he and I retired to the sitting room out on the porch to drink some tea and try to enjoy the view, even though the sky was filling up with those ominous, dark grey clouds that ruined fine spring days like these to most people. I sipped on some Earl Grey, the name matching the cloud color, and he sat there with his raspberry, but refused to drink it.

And I asked him if he was going to drink it or let it get cold.

And he said he didn't like to burn his mouth so he was going to wait.

I thought that comment was rather snarky and uncalled for seeing as I didn't even have to make him any tea in the first place, but I kept it to myself. I kept a lot of things to myself. And we sat in silence for a while. It was obvious he was uncomfortable but I was never one to break any silence for any reason. The rain began to fall from the sky, softly at first but getting progressively louder and louder. Thunder was next, and then came the lightning. We enjoyed the light show. Well, I enjoyed it. I can't speak for him. I never could. He hated when I did that. So I enjoyed it. Just me. And he finally sipped his tea, I presume that it had finally cooled down enough for him.

He swallowed hard and he studied the window intently. Why didn't you cry, he asked.

I retorted with, excuse me?

Why didn't you cry, he repeated. It bothers me so much that you showed no emotion towards the death of a living creature that you spent your entire life with, that you took care of, that you watched grow and mature, he said. It bothers me so badly that you didn't even care enough to shed a tear. And that's where I stopped him.

Who are you to say I don't care? I spoke calmly, but the malevolence must have been dripping off of every designation. Who are you to say that? Just because I didn't cry doesn't mean that I'm apathetic towards this situation, I said.

I continued with, that dog was there when no one else was. That dog was my only friend sometimes. That dog was everything to me. I slept with him every night. I truly mean it when I say that he was everything to me. It's absolutely devastating to me that I won't come home to him barking excitedly and wagging his tail at me, that I won't be able to cuddle up next to him, to take him out for walks on days like these. It's incredibly vexatious to me, this entire situation. However, if I cried, what good would it do? Crying is just a release of emotions, of grief, of sadness. and if I cried for the rest of my life, it wouldn't release any of the sadness I feel right now. I accepted that he died and that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, so why cry over something I can't accept? I loved it to death but everything you love and grow attached to will someday be gone, whether they do it by choice or by nature. I can't bring him back with my tears, I can't bring him back with anything. But dwelling on it and crying over it and making myself feel worse than I already do isn't going to do any good.

Someday, I continued, you will be gone too.

Someday, I said, you will leave. And you will either leave on a pilgrimage to someone better, and I won't cry over that. Because you'll be happy, and I'll find something else to occupy my time. And I'll find the things I liked in you in someone or something else. Or maybe you'll pass on, but I'll see you in our children or I'll see you in our pictures. Crying wouldn't bring you back if you left me for your own uncharitable intentions or to become fertilizer for soil. Or maybe I'll leave you, to find what I think is a superior life on an unknown path, or I'll go the way of all flesh and you will be left with the recollections of our time together. And I wouldn't expect you to shed one tear at my funeral, if I even decided I wanted one. I'd want you to celebrate my life and smile, not cry, because crying is a waste of time and neither will resurrect me anyway.

I've come to accept this. If I didn't accept this and lived in the depressing naivety that most people dwell in, then maybe I'd cry. Maybe I'd cry so hard my eyes turned bloodshot red, maybe I'd cry so hard that the tears stained my cheeks permanently, like tattoos that constantly reminded me of how pathetic I am.

But no, I said. No.

So I won't cry over a dog and I won't cry over you and I won't cry over anything or anybody because it won't do a damn thing. I sipped my tea and stopped talking, the silence was laced with bitterness and my own philosophies.

And then you cried.