One of those phone calls

My father called me this morning, unusually early. I wasn’t too surprised, given that today Catholics observe Good Friday. I figured he might want to wish me a blessed day—though he’s never done that before. But as soon as I heard his voice, I knew something was off.

“It’s Mickey…” he said, his voice beginning to break. “The doctor told me the best thing to do is to help him cross the rainbow.”
The last words were almost unintelligible.

I took a long pause, trying to find any words of wisdom I might have. But I couldn’t bring myself to say much—after all, this was my father. He knows more than I do.

Only a year and a half has passed since the day he told me someone had gifted him this little dog. For all intents and purposes, Mickey was still a puppy. I remember how much he resisted the idea of getting a dog, of getting attached. I also remember how much I insisted that he should open up his heart to one.

“Dad... I don’t understand why these things happen. I don’t think anyone does. But if anything—don’t let this rob you from giving another dog a chance at a good life.”

I still don’t know where that came from, but it was the only thing I said during that call that made any sense.

My father told me he doesn’t feel like he can go home now. That it won’t be the same without Mickey wagging his tail and barking in excitement. He also told me his relationship with his wife isn’t great—and that they ended up fighting horribly over Mickey’s death.

Loss is part of life. We all know that. He certainly does. He lost his father—my grandfather—when I was still a little kid. And he became a father when he was still one himself. Just 18.

“Dad… don’t do anything stupid, please,” I said, as I felt him trying to end the call.

“I’m just going to sleep,” he added.

And then, silence.

I’ve always been under the impression that as we age, we get stronger. But maybe that’s not the case after all. Maybe we just get better at hiding things, and nothing more. Tomorrow, my dad will surely get up and go to work, meet with mechanics, deal with people, go about his day—and no one he sees will know that his heart has been shattered into a thousand pieces.

My older brother called soon after, for unrelated reasons. I told him about Dad, and how I think they should talk. He hesitated—since their relationship isn’t great—but agreed to think of an excuse to call him.

“Hey… it’s Good Friday,” I said, knowing full well my brother rejects all religious dogma.

“You’re right,” he replied, almost laughing. “Maybe that’ll have to do…”

MenO