Heart Talk

They Are Not Just ‘Pets’

We all have lost people we love. We deal with it in our own separate ways with varying degrees of success. In a 15-month period a few years ago, I lost my mother, my wife, a sister, and a man, who for all intents and purposes, was my surrogate father.

Each death was a gut punch that left me doubled over with grief, emptiness, and a desire to throw punches in the air toward a God that might not even be there. With the aid of family, friends, and a great therapist, I managed to straighten up, stumble, and finally walk forward again.

But this is not a column about the loss of beloved humans. It is rather about a loss that is all too often not accorded the solemnity it deserves. I speak of the death of our animal companions. (The term “pet” leaves a bad taste in my month.)

When my wife died, our home was populated by one widower, two rescue cats, and some fish in a built-in tank that came with the house. I don’t want to upset fish owners, but they were not much comfort or fun, even when I took them out of the tank for play time.

But my cats, Pete and Jack, were a different story. “Oh, cats, the epitome of aloof indifference,” one might say. Not my cats. They were playful, ornery, and bed hogs at night. They could be mean to creatures smaller than themselves, but such is their nature. Least you be too judgmental of their behavior, think of our factory farms.

When I would lay back to watch television, one or the other would get a running start and land on my chest. A paw would gently brush my cheek, telling me it was time to scratch behind their ears.

Time passed and both became infirm. A mistake many people with cats and dogs make is using heroic measures to keep them alive. They worry about how sad they will feel when their friend dies, rather than considering the low quality of life the animal is enduring.

When the time came, I took Jack, and a few months later, Pete, to the animal hospital on Forest. There Dr. Amy Rosencrantz and later Dr. Cathy Nguyen, professionally and loving, put my friends to sleep.

Mark Twain said, “Some people scorn a cat and think it not essential: the Clements tribe are not of these.” Neither is the Utt tribe.

About 12 years ago, my younger son Steven got a pug. What a character he was. It is astonishing how much energy some small dogs can have. Struggling against the leash harness (hey, pugs have no neck so regular leashes don’t work), Chuy’s little pug piston legs charged up and down the hills of Silverlake with reckless abandon.

Everywhere Steven went, Chuy was at his heels. They were like the shark and the pilot fish. He was my son’s best buddy. Joy and companionship flourished.

The years rolled by and Chuy begin to slow down. He was a black pug, but age turned him into a two-toned dog. Black body with a gray face. He no longer had the power pug legs, but still managed to follow Steven everywhere he went.

This October, Steven knew Chuy’s life was slipping away. Rather than letting him continue to suffer, he drove Chuy to the vet to be put down. Probably driving a bit too fast, he had his beloved dog on his lap. Chuy looked up one last time at the human he had come to love, put his head down and died.

From that day, there has been a hole in Steven’s soul. The chill winds of Washington state blow through it. He is an excellent guitar player and he has been playing a lot lately. It does ease the pain, but only for a moment.

Steven would agree with Orange County’s Dean Koontz, who said, “Once you had a wonderful dog, a life without one is a life diminished.”

Next time you hear someone say, “It was just a cat,” or “just get another dog,” ask them to think about this a little more deeply, with a little more empathy.

James Utt is the author of “Laguna Tales and Boomer Wails.” He notices on his walks that people with dogs are much more likely to offer a friendly “hello” than those whose heads are buried in electronic devices.