My Sense of Tragedy

When we first received the assignment, I was completely and utterly stumped. All in all, I would say I've lead a fairly privileged life: two parents, four grandparents, two sisters, a roof over my head, an opportunity to receive a college education. "How can I write about tragedy when my life really isn't all that bad?"... Then I heard Amber's story about her pets passing away and suddenly the floodgates of my memory opened wide up. I completely relate to all the stories about a pet dying, especially dogs, and how it can be a tragedy. I mean, think about it... what is more tragic than life being taken away from something so innocent, almost as innocent as a small child (I know that's kind of a stretch, but still...).

Growing up, my family had two large, sloppy, loving Golden Retrievers that were essentially apart of the family. We got our first dog, Britta, when I was six and the second one, Hannah, when I was 8. They were the perfect family dogs, even tolerating when my sisters and I would dress them up in stupid costumes. When I was 16, we found out Britta had a tumor near her heart and the veterinarian told my family to start expecting the worse. Britta was becoming so weak that she couldn't manage to walk herself up and down the stairs. My dad had to carry this full grown dog down the stairs of our deck in the backyard every time she went outside.

I had a job at a clothing store in the mall and I had just begun doing all of the nightly closing tasks - mopping, vacuuming, cleaning mirrors, etc. when I went back to my locker to check my phone to see I had one new text message from my sister. I opened it. "Michelle, Britta died tonight." Is that not the worst way to hear about a death? Through a text message? I don't think my 12 year old sister understood that and all I kept thinking about was how I still had another half an hour before I could go home. I spent the rest of my shift mopping the wood floor, trying my hardest to keep from breaking down in sobs.

Then, not even a month later, our younger dog, Hannah (who until this moment appeared to be in good health) collapsed on the kitchen floor and peed herself. Her body was entirely limp and her lips were beginning to turn blue. She laid there completely helpless on the floor, but her eyes were still moving and she appeared to still be breathing. My dad picked up Hannah (who weighed a little less than I did) and carried her out to the car as my sisters and I followed. She died later that day from what appeared to be heart failure.

Whenever I told my friends this story, they all said the same thing - "She must have died from a broken heart." Being so emotionally attached to someone that losing him or her would literally break your heart. Like your body just gives up on you because you lost your other half and have no will to live. To me, that's one of the most tragic things about life - knowing that everyone you love will eventually pass away. Some day (hopefully not soon) your father will die, your mother will die, your siblings will die, your spouse will die. And how will you go on? Will you survive the rest of your life with a piece of your heart missing? We often talk about this with people, but in my experience, this is also true with my two sloppy, loving Golden Retrievers.