On the Other Side of Sadness: Teaching Our Kids (and Ourselves) That It’s Okay to Feel Anything
My six-year-old daughter, Opal, wants nothing more than to go to the Humane Society to visit the dogs that “need the most love.” So we leave right from a half-day of school to do just that, eating almond butter and jelly sandwiches on the way. The entryway of the Boulder Valley Humane Society smells like wood chips. There is a stack of hamster cages by the front door, placed like intended impulse purchases, like Chapstick and breath mints at Target. “May I help you?” The pleasant lady behind the counter says with a mouth that is more gums than teeth. I tell her we’d like to visit a dog or two that are especially in need of love. “Hmmm,” she says, thinking, with a close-mouthed smile. “Yes, Leo could use a visit. He’s big, that ok?” We have an 85-pound lab at home. I assure her we are accustomed to Big. We find Leo asleep on a bed in a very large crate with a bone-shaped sign marked “Sweetie pie.” He is a five-year-old pit bull with a face as wide as a loaf of bread and fur the shade of sand. We return to the front room where we wait for a staff person to bring him out. I notice as we walk through the halls, many—but not all—of the dogs have the same bone-shaped signs hanging from their cages, but with all different descriptions: “Playful!” “Timid.” It occurs to me that the ones without the signs must not be as forthcoming in their nameable characteristics. In my mind I imagine hosting a party in the New Year where I’ll have each guest wear a little sign around their neck that states one of their prominent qualities: People pleaser. Observer. Perfectionist. Leo busts through the swinging doors, pulling a staff member behind him on a pink leash. This should be an indication of what we’re in for, but I grab the leash anyway and out the front doors we go. Walking this dog is essentially like walking a linebacker who is heading in the opposite direction. I desperately try to keep my footing while he pulls me down a muddy decline and we leave Opal behind, yelling MOM! Giving this dog love is proving to be an arduous task. So we start to head back towards the building where we came from. As we walk, I notice the fur is missing from the tops of both of Leo’s ears and there are chalky mushroom-shaped lumps on his skin where the hair should be growing. Same on the backs of his legs. There are pin stripes in his short fur where the hair doesn’t grow, much more subtle than the scars that would have come from the mouth or claws of another animals. Opal says, “Why does he look like that?” I tell her it looks like he’s been in a fight with another dog. Harmless enough—animals fight. I don’t say that it looks like he has probably been in dogfights. That he was likely rescued from a rough situation with either an abusive owner or an owner who condoned violence. The kind of scenario that gives pit bulls a bad name. He is horrid on a leash—left both of my hands red and burned from the yanking—but he doesn’t seem to have any fear of or aggression towards people. This, to me, is a marvel. Upon our return, we catch sight of a man playing with a pit bull puppy, smiling and laughing as the pup climbs into his lap then flops over the side. I can see that Opal wants that experience, so we give Leo a final head-scratch and then ask to trade him in for a puppy. The Discomfort, the Squirming Away, the Return to Presence We take one of seven pit bull puppies to a fenced-in area outside. The fresh air and the puppy-energy feel like a relief. He’s as small as a football and slick-black except for his belly and the tips of his paws, which are pure white. Watching him teeter and fumble from point A to point B is pure comedy. Opal is beside herself with delight. Then she asks the inevitable question: “Can we take him home?” I tell her no. A puppy is way too much work. They poop and chew on everything. But we can come visit him next week. “What if he’s gone by then?” Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. “Blackbird” by the Beatles is playing on the radio—Take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see her in the rear-view mirror gazing out the window with a million-mile stare. I tell her that if he’s gone, that would mean a good family adopted him. These puppies would probably get adopted really fast. Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. “Blackbird” by the Beatles is playing on the radio—Take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see her in the rear-view mirror gazing out the window with a million-mile stare. At home, Opal drapes her body over my lap as we sit on the couch. Our huge lab is snoring at my feet. Opal is sniffling and periodically wipes her nose on her sleeve. I caress her hair. She says, “What if nobody wants to adopt Leo?” Plump little tears pool in the corners of her eyes. I tell Opal that maybe we shouldn’t return to the Humane Society if it’s just going to break her heart. But that only upsets her more and I quickly realize those words are counter to everything we’ve been teaching her. We—the Grimes family—have spent the better part of a year as a foster family. And we frequently talk about how we never need to shy away from big emotions, especially when they come as a repercussion of helping others. But it’s such a habit to either tense-up or cower in the face of unhappiness, and to want to shield others from the…
