COLUMN: Sam's Death: The End of My Childhood

From Rob Faunce's "Quoi d'ever," Fall '95 From Rob Faunce's "Quoi d'ever," Fall '95It's three in the morning, and I am covertly smoking Camels in my mother's linen closet, hoping she will mistake my unmistakable cancer stick-of-choice for her own. Family is the root of all nervous dysfunction in this world. Coming home is like entering a maudlin Twilight Zone. Its the Big 80's on Prozac. I only come home in small doses. Two days for break, three days for Christmas. It keeps the senses keen on the things you take for granted when you are engulfed in the family milieu. Old newspapers strewn by the fireplace, Candlepin bowling trophies on the mantle, as-yet, undrunk bottles of Ernest and Julio Gallos White Zinfandel in the refrigerator. They smack my senses like a stiff brandy on a cold New Hampshire day. I have avoided home for a while now. Too much unresolved angst here. No, no: Its not the gay thing. That was all of a trauma for maybe a day. Openly dysfunctional families tend to accept one anothers' idiosyncratic characteristics as par for the course. Being gay simply gave my mother an excuse to ask me how to color-coordinate. I don't feel safe here anymore. This may have been my solace at some youthful moment, but now it is simply a faded, blurring sepiatone of what was once my life in a dying state, in a dead family. Grace just came and licked my forehead. Grace is my little puppy; realistically she is now a grown, mature lady of the house, but she is always a playful lass to me. The Gracester is very confused to see me, because I think she expects to see Sam with me. The last time she saw me was when I left my former home last July, with a peck on her puppy nose, and took Sam away with me. Sam is my baby. Was. Is. Always will be. Sammy was a free spirited mutt, and proud of it. Part retriever, part wolf, she was independent and feisty and my best friend throughout teenage wasteland. I can't look Gracie in the eye and tell her where Sam is, because the truth is, I killed her. The last time I showed my face in our home, Sam went from being in fine spirits to death's door. The vet told me that morning that the tumor would have started to affect her any day. He lied. Sam was waiting for me to come back and whisper French phrases of indeterminate pronunciation in her ear. I came to her, and she let me take her to her death. I signed her execution papers on July 10. I paid the extra 20 dollars for the superfluous pomp-and-cremation ceremony, and an extra special urn that has a white label on the front that says Samantha. Quote unquote Samantha. She was not just some window-decorative dog. Sam was not just a quote/unquote to be billed. Trent Reznor recently started a mellow period in recording that was a direct result of the death of his dog. Sam's position in my life only becomes clearer as I see my life without her causing me great periods of angst. I am withdrawn from my loved ones for fear that they will leave me too. I can't look my little Gracie in the eyes without thinking that I killed her big sister and protector. I can't come home without finding wisps of her hair on my winter clothes, without calling out to my baby at the landing of the front staircase before catching myself and realizing that she has left me. With Sam gone, a chapter of my life is dead with her and it makes home so unbearable. For so long Sam was the only one who listened to what I needed to say. When I needed to practice coming out to my mother, I chatted with Sam (who probably thought I was calling her to dinner while I prattled to her). When I didn't know how to cope with graduating from high school, I petted her all night and watched Molly Ringwald movies. Sam was with me through my formative years, and with her death comes the end of all that was in that world. I don't ascribe some great intelligence to Sam, or any other dog, that duplicates humanity. Rather, I ascribe to her extreme devotion, a devotion to me that I feel that I failed to live up to when I let her die without fighting, without exhausting my means to fight her disease, without holding her snow white paws while she left my world and went on to some mythically ridiculous doghouse in the sky. She was more than an animal to me. She was a soul mate, a true friend, a sister and the keeper of my childhood. I still grieve for her, and miss her tremendously. Without her here I am a foreigner in my own home, and my tour guides don't seem to speak my language anymore. So I will be leaving home again. Another two-day jaunt resulting in three months of therapy. I wonder if Grace will expect Sam to be with me next time I come around. I take comfort in knowing that Gracie sees us as one in the same, and that in her doggy-dog world, Sam and I are still together.