Where The Red Fern Grows

We lost a family member over the weekend.

Biscuit, the Meissner's little dog, passed away. I got the news after coming home from church, and it was like a kick in the stomach. Biscuit was about as long as my arm from the elbow to the tip of my fingers, and I couldn't tell you what his eyes looked like because he was covered in mostly beautiful black hair all the time -- except the times he got caught out the briars, or in the sticky mouse traps. Wasn't quite as beautiful then.

Nona, Monty and the kids are taking it pretty hard. Even Coby and Melody were moping around the house a little bit Sunday. We don't have a dog, of course, but it almost felt like Biscuit was one of ours -- we'd take care of him when Nona and Monty would go out of town, feeding him and letting him out to do whatever it is dogs do in their spare time. When you spend that time of quality time with someone -- even a dog -- well, doggone it, you do get very attached.

That's part of the reason why I really don't mind not having a pet around the house. I've got three kids -- that's enough to worry about. A dog or cat is like another child in the house, really. It's times like these that you really understand just how important a pet can be in your family, because it really does feel like a family member has died here in the 'Ville.

I don't watch pet movies anymore, or I try not to. The majority of them end up the same way, meaning the dog dies. As a little kid I remember bawling my eyes out on the couch watching a movie called "Where The Red Fern Grows," which basically ends with these two dogs -- I think they were brothers -- end up dying and a red fern grows up at the gravesite. I can't remember much about the story, actually, because like I said I'll never watch it again. Way too sad.

I'm also reminded of a time when I was probably 15 or so, when we had a little mutt around the house named Rocky. Rocky was some sort of terrier I think, but he had a severe wild streak in him. That means he never missed a chance to scoot past you and outside when the slightest crack appeared in the doorway. When that happened, naturally, I was the one who got yelled at and told to go get the dog, who was by then running roughshod all over the neighborhood.

I will never forget the day I was down the street playing wiffleball and I heard the yelling come from the house -- "David, Rocky's out!" I, of course being locked into the ballgame and needing a couple of runs at a key moment, blared out loud -- "I don't care! I hope the stupid dog is run over!"

You guessed it. Five minutes later I hear the screech of tires on the street. Rocky had run in front of a car and that was it.

My whole family mourned. Not just hours or days, but it seemed like weeks. I, of course, had to carry the guilt of my last words about my dog. For me it was much longer -- to this day I get choked up about it sometimes. It was grief, real, heartbreaking grief.

Pets do become a part of our lives. Dogs, for some reason, always seem to be very special. We've had cats leave us before and it never quite had the same effect. But there's just something about losing our "best friend..."

Maybe that's it. Maybe because a dog will actually love you and spend time with you, and not really ask for anything in return no matter how badly you might treat him sometimes. For whatever reason, we get close to them and before you know it -- almost subconsciously -- they are as much a part of our lives as, well, another child.

We will miss Biscuit. I'm sure there will be other dogs around the Meissner house someday, and we'll all grow to love that dog too. But there won't ever be another Biscuit.

RIP little fella.