Three things were all I needed to make my world complete – a baby sister, a house and a dog. The year I was nine, it all happened. And for almost two years, I was the happiest kid ever.
Getting to this joyful place involved a few complex elements, one being a late-in-life pregnancy. The youngest of four girls, my sisters were all in school when I was born. I longed for someone who looked up to me, someone I could care for. My mother was forty when she sat on my bed one night and told me the news. My reply was, “I hope it’s a girl.."
I was the only one whose wish came true.
In August, when my sister was three months old, a devastating hurricane that brought weeks of rain, flooded our town making our apartment unlivable. When school started that fall, our family was in a real house with a yard.
I never asked where Murph came from. I only know he was the happy ending to an eventful spring and summer, the element that made my life complete. I had waited so long for a dog. I awakened Christmas Eve and heard some puppy noises..
In the morning I walked into the living room and stared at the presents. Maybe I’d imagined. But no! I turned to see a little yellow puppy running toward me. It was as if he knew he was mine. From the moment he nibbled on my hair and licked my joyful tears, from the moment I breathed in his puppy smell, I was his.
Christmas pups, just like Easter chicks don’t always end well. This was the 1950s when dogs weren’t necessarily part of the family, when neutering was optional and when dog training involved stupid practices like rubbing the dog’s nose in their mistakes.
Murph was a yellow terrier-mix. Part beagle? Who knows? He was medium-size and wiry. His puppyhood is a blur, but I do remember when problems began. He’d push out the door and run off. He’d nip protectively at the mailman. Neutering and some simple dog training would likely have solved the problem,, but I can only see that now. I was unequipped.
The ease of getting a puppy was matched only by the ease of depositing him at The Pound less than two years later. I came home from an outing with friends, and he was gone.
If I could change one thing it would be this – I would not have been helpless and resigned. Along that same line, I would not have believed the story that my parents told. “We gave the man at The Pound extra money to take care of him until he could find him a good home.”
It wasn’t until later I realized his likely and swift fate. I have trouble even now, a half a century later writing this. Before my mother died at ninety-four, we reconciled many things, but this one never got discussed. I couldn’t.
I remember so well the vacation we took to Cape Cod right after he was taken from me. I’m sure the upcoming trip and the problem solving it would have taken to find a caretaker for Murph, was more than my overwhelmed parents could figure out.
On the drive from Connecticut to Massachusetts, I rode in the backseat, noticing every dog we passed. My heart was breaking. By the end of the vacation, by the end of the summer, my sadness had turned numb and then later to dislike of anything doggie. I hated the feel of their fur. I hated their smell especially.
I thought little of dogs until I was twenty-five, living away from home, self-supporting. One day, on a whim I went to the local Shelter and rescued a small black dog. She was to be euthanized the next day. She picked me out, as if I was meant for her. She was the beginning of my healing and the beginning of my lifelong affair with dogs.
As I look back, it was my resignation and helplessness that I most wish I could change. I wonder what would have happened if I had fussed and complained, if I had engaged my older sisters in my pain, asked for their help. Would I have been able to save Murph?
I was a kid, and my parents thought I would get over it. I never have. But if I had would the passion I feel for dogs and other living creatures ever have taken up such a huge part of my adult heart?
A few years ago, I wrote a Middle Grade Novel about a girl name Dawn. The idea for the story began with, these thoughts – what if I hadn’t just accepted this loss? What if I fought back?
Dawn has sisters who help her. But she is the brave heroine, who in the middle of a devastating flood, finds a way to save not only her dog, but also her family. Dawn is my hero. She has helped give me some closure, but an emptiness still lingers.
I fill it when I create paintings of dogs and cats and other animals that we humans love and are loved by. I fill it with Sam and Finn, my current canines and with the memories of the many dogs who have been in my life.. I mourn their short lives, but I realize it’s not their fault or mine when they leave me.
I know that dogs give all they are for the short time we have them in our lives.
Today, I believe that the legacy of a great dog is that we open our hearts to love another.
Perhaps that thought honors Murph’s memory best.
Mary-Jo Murphy
Getting to this joyful place involved a few complex elements, one being a late-in-life pregnancy. The youngest of four girls, my sisters were all in school when I was born. I longed for someone who looked up to me, someone I could care for. My mother was forty when she sat on my bed one night and told me the news. My reply was, “I hope it’s a girl.."
I was the only one whose wish came true.
In August, when my sister was three months old, a devastating hurricane that brought weeks of rain, flooded our town making our apartment unlivable. When school started that fall, our family was in a real house with a yard.
I never asked where Murph came from. I only know he was the happy ending to an eventful spring and summer, the element that made my life complete. I had waited so long for a dog. I awakened Christmas Eve and heard some puppy noises..
In the morning I walked into the living room and stared at the presents. Maybe I’d imagined. But no! I turned to see a little yellow puppy running toward me. It was as if he knew he was mine. From the moment he nibbled on my hair and licked my joyful tears, from the moment I breathed in his puppy smell, I was his.
Christmas pups, just like Easter chicks don’t always end well. This was the 1950s when dogs weren’t necessarily part of the family, when neutering was optional and when dog training involved stupid practices like rubbing the dog’s nose in their mistakes.
Murph was a yellow terrier-mix. Part beagle? Who knows? He was medium-size and wiry. His puppyhood is a blur, but I do remember when problems began. He’d push out the door and run off. He’d nip protectively at the mailman. Neutering and some simple dog training would likely have solved the problem,, but I can only see that now. I was unequipped.
The ease of getting a puppy was matched only by the ease of depositing him at The Pound less than two years later. I came home from an outing with friends, and he was gone.
If I could change one thing it would be this – I would not have been helpless and resigned. Along that same line, I would not have believed the story that my parents told. “We gave the man at The Pound extra money to take care of him until he could find him a good home.”
It wasn’t until later I realized his likely and swift fate. I have trouble even now, a half a century later writing this. Before my mother died at ninety-four, we reconciled many things, but this one never got discussed. I couldn’t.
I remember so well the vacation we took to Cape Cod right after he was taken from me. I’m sure the upcoming trip and the problem solving it would have taken to find a caretaker for Murph, was more than my overwhelmed parents could figure out.
On the drive from Connecticut to Massachusetts, I rode in the backseat, noticing every dog we passed. My heart was breaking. By the end of the vacation, by the end of the summer, my sadness had turned numb and then later to dislike of anything doggie. I hated the feel of their fur. I hated their smell especially.
I thought little of dogs until I was twenty-five, living away from home, self-supporting. One day, on a whim I went to the local Shelter and rescued a small black dog. She was to be euthanized the next day. She picked me out, as if I was meant for her. She was the beginning of my healing and the beginning of my lifelong affair with dogs.
As I look back, it was my resignation and helplessness that I most wish I could change. I wonder what would have happened if I had fussed and complained, if I had engaged my older sisters in my pain, asked for their help. Would I have been able to save Murph?
I was a kid, and my parents thought I would get over it. I never have. But if I had would the passion I feel for dogs and other living creatures ever have taken up such a huge part of my adult heart?
A few years ago, I wrote a Middle Grade Novel about a girl name Dawn. The idea for the story began with, these thoughts – what if I hadn’t just accepted this loss? What if I fought back?
Dawn has sisters who help her. But she is the brave heroine, who in the middle of a devastating flood, finds a way to save not only her dog, but also her family. Dawn is my hero. She has helped give me some closure, but an emptiness still lingers.
I fill it when I create paintings of dogs and cats and other animals that we humans love and are loved by. I fill it with Sam and Finn, my current canines and with the memories of the many dogs who have been in my life.. I mourn their short lives, but I realize it’s not their fault or mine when they leave me.
I know that dogs give all they are for the short time we have them in our lives.
Today, I believe that the legacy of a great dog is that we open our hearts to love another.
Perhaps that thought honors Murph’s memory best.
Mary-Jo Murphy