Goldberg: Waking the dead

By Tod Goldberg

I know it is considered bad form to speak ill of the dead, so I'm going to try my best not to hurt anyone's feelings here about Ray Charles (truly an American original) or Ronald Reagan (who, along with Rocky, brought down that wall and defeated Ivan Drago so we all could be free) or the on-again, off-again death of Johnny Ramone (who, it should be noted, is actively living, much to the dismay of those who thought he was dead), but a debate has begun to rage in the halls of Goldbergdom over a topic both morbid in its scope and practical in its application: Which is more sad, a photo of a dead pet or a photo of a dead person (even one you knew only vaguely)?

This may sound macabre to many of you, because it is; so let me set out the circumstances of this debate. A few days ago, I spent the night at my sister's house and, while combing through her stuff while she was asleep, came across a photo of my dead dog Mandinka. Mandinka was a Great Pyrenees, a breed of dog that looks like a cross between a polar bear and a marshmallow and one that was ill-suited to live, with her massive fur coat, in the heat of the San Fernando Valley. Coupled with the fact that she had asthma, Mandinka was altogether imperfect for this world, far better apt to be saving hikers in, say, the Pyrenees than providing companionship to suburbanites in the Valley. The problem was that we loved Mandinka, she was a good and faithful dog and we were selfish to keep her in the heat, selfish not to understand that she deserved a life in the snow and, as such, her asthma, coupled with the temperature and smog and earthquakes and all, killed her off at a young age. She was four when she died one day in her sleep.

The photo I stumbled across was of Mandinka sprawled across the couch, just as she always was. When I saw it, a sense of untenable sadness washed over me; not like I was Schindler with that goddamned watch, or even that kid at the end of Last American Virgin, but as if I'd come across the actual dog in the flesh and all these years I'd forgotten her in the back yard or, as it was, on the sofa. Tears filled my eyes and it was all I could do not to cry. A similar thing happened a few years before when I unexpectedly found a picture of my childhood dog, Sam, who we put to sleep at the age of 10. But since the Mandinka incident, I've tried to figure out what I was feeling and why.

When I see a picture of dead person I cared about, even distantly, I feel sad for myself, because I miss them, because they aren't in my physical life anymore; or I feel sad for the people who loved them more than me. Like, say, Nancy Reagan. When she hugged Ron's casket during his funeral, I felt awful for the woman, never mind what I thought about her husband's political leanings, because her husband was gone and that is sad, of course. I didn't feel bad for Ron at all. He won one for the Gipper and all that.

When I see a photo of my own late grandfather, it actually makes me happy because I loved him and he loved me and though his time on Earth has ended, he lived a full and interesting life and whatever sadness I feel is for others--my mother, my grandmother--because they miss him so acutely, as if he's still here but somehow absent, which is, I suppose, what mourning is all about, even nearly 20 years later. But he's at peace and not in any pain and I think, well, that's not so bad. I see his photo and it's like being reminded of a forgotten secret, a buried treasure, a recording of a time and a place where I was happy.

But when I see a beloved pet, no matter the age they die, I think: You didn't get to be here long enough. Why did you have to get so old so fast? I feel sad, then, for them. For a life they couldn't live. Old people and old animals die. That's the truth. But for me, coming across a photo of a pet is like being reminded of poor choices-- the doggy door we never bought, the walks we never took, for getting mad at them for acting like dogs.

My sisters agree that dead pets are more sad, my wife thinks I'm crazy in general and on this point in particular, and I haven't asked my brother because he'd probably suggest neither, that Swedish "Diagnosis Murder" fan fiction is more tragic for the psyche. Maybe all of this makes me a shallow, callous human or is related to my parent's divorce, the missing child-support and growing up on shag carpet. Or just maybe you feel same way...and I'm the only one dumb enough to come clean. Settle the debate.