Dear readers, by now you have heard a little about our mother, Syl (see “Frozen Sandwiches,” below), but not much about our father, Phil. This is a story that will help you get to know Phil a little better. If you haven’t figured it out already, the Boyd household was one that would have thrived in Spartan times. In addition to Phil and Syl’s unending quest to maintain the highest order of discipline and frugality in our household, those of you who know us personally would probably agree that we could benefit from some empathy training, as well. While Syl could muster a few words of comfort in particularly stressful times, Phil was more of the stoic type. If you don’t believe me, just ask Phil why he made me wait until halftime of a high school football game to take me to the emergency room for a near-ruptured appendix.
Phil’s lack of sensitivity aside, he did manage to show a little enthusiasm (and, dare I say, love?) for our family’s beloved German Shepherd, Hershey. In the words of Jerry Maguire, Hershey completed us. She had the bravery of Rin Tin Tin and the heroism of Lassie. In fact, my siblings and I speculated Hershey was Rin Tin Tin and Lassie’s love child, the result of one perfect night of passion on a studio lot in Hollywood. She was, simply put, the perfect dog. She responded to Sign Language commands and rescued women and children from burning buildings. Most importantly, however, she protected us pasty Boyd children from the ruffians and ne’er do wells that often bullied other kids on our local playground. Hershey was, in essence, the Mr. T to our A Team, the Jem to our Holograms, the Uncle Jesse to our Full House.
On Hershey's eleventh year on this earth, we noticed a cyst which we later learned was widespread cancer. The vet delivered the crushing news: Hershey had to be put to sleep the next morning. Since I was the only Boyd child left at home, I felt obligated to give our beloved pet the last rites befitting of a cherished family member: brushing her thick coat to a shine, petting her for hours, and sleeping by her side for the night. In what turned out to be a grievous lapse in judgment, Syl put Phil in charge of taking Hershey to the Vet O' Death the next day. Though Syl gave me the option to stay home from school, I mustered up the courage to attend classes, partially because I did not want to accompany Hershey on her death march, and partially because I wanted my last memory of Hershey to be of her at peace in our home, and not taking her final walk towards the light. All day I wandered the halls of my high school in a melancholy daze, reluctantly sharing the painful story of my beloved dog’s impending doom with my friends. As I drove home from school that day, I played a montage of my favorite moments with Hershey in my head: fleeing from thugs at the playground, chasing the ice cream truck, feeding her scraps from the table, and so on. I walked into the house still pondering these bittersweet memories when I rounded the corner and saw Hershey. Lying in her bed. Still alive. I was overcome by a typhoon-size wave of emotions--was Hershey ok? Did her cancer miraculously disappear? I ran through the house until I found Phil in the home office steadily typing away on the computer and rapidly signed my questions in an effort to ascertain the truth. Phil, in an indifferent, blasé tone that I detected immediately, signed:
“Oh. I didn't have time to take her today. I guess I'll take her tomorrow.”
My mind reeled. I retorted, “You didn't have time to kill my childhood pet today?!”
At this point Phil's brain must have registered two things: a) he screwed up, and b) Syl was NOT going to be happy with him when she found out that he had purposely delayed Hershey’s agony. If there was one person in our house that loved Hershey more than I, it was Syl. It was the one time that I was able to tell him “Wait until Mom gets home,” and sheer terror appeared on his face.
I can’t tell you what exactly Syl said to Phil when she got home (this is, after all, a family blog), but I can tell you that she was livid. All I remember seeing was a flurry of violent-looking hand gestures, finger pointing, clenched jaws and bulging eyes. In his defense, Phil was remorseful. He did take Hershey to the vet the next day, and the best dog that ever lived was finally laid to rest.
I wish I could say that Phil turned over a newer, more delicate leaf after this unfortunate incident, but that would be a lie. While you may be able to chastise an old dog for its insensitivity, you can't teach it new tricks.
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Phil’s lack of sensitivity aside, he did manage to show a little enthusiasm (and, dare I say, love?) for our family’s beloved German Shepherd, Hershey. In the words of Jerry Maguire, Hershey completed us. She had the bravery of Rin Tin Tin and the heroism of Lassie. In fact, my siblings and I speculated Hershey was Rin Tin Tin and Lassie’s love child, the result of one perfect night of passion on a studio lot in Hollywood. She was, simply put, the perfect dog. She responded to Sign Language commands and rescued women and children from burning buildings. Most importantly, however, she protected us pasty Boyd children from the ruffians and ne’er do wells that often bullied other kids on our local playground. Hershey was, in essence, the Mr. T to our A Team, the Jem to our Holograms, the Uncle Jesse to our Full House.
On Hershey's eleventh year on this earth, we noticed a cyst which we later learned was widespread cancer. The vet delivered the crushing news: Hershey had to be put to sleep the next morning. Since I was the only Boyd child left at home, I felt obligated to give our beloved pet the last rites befitting of a cherished family member: brushing her thick coat to a shine, petting her for hours, and sleeping by her side for the night. In what turned out to be a grievous lapse in judgment, Syl put Phil in charge of taking Hershey to the Vet O' Death the next day. Though Syl gave me the option to stay home from school, I mustered up the courage to attend classes, partially because I did not want to accompany Hershey on her death march, and partially because I wanted my last memory of Hershey to be of her at peace in our home, and not taking her final walk towards the light. All day I wandered the halls of my high school in a melancholy daze, reluctantly sharing the painful story of my beloved dog’s impending doom with my friends. As I drove home from school that day, I played a montage of my favorite moments with Hershey in my head: fleeing from thugs at the playground, chasing the ice cream truck, feeding her scraps from the table, and so on. I walked into the house still pondering these bittersweet memories when I rounded the corner and saw Hershey. Lying in her bed. Still alive. I was overcome by a typhoon-size wave of emotions--was Hershey ok? Did her cancer miraculously disappear? I ran through the house until I found Phil in the home office steadily typing away on the computer and rapidly signed my questions in an effort to ascertain the truth. Phil, in an indifferent, blasé tone that I detected immediately, signed:
“Oh. I didn't have time to take her today. I guess I'll take her tomorrow.”
My mind reeled. I retorted, “You didn't have time to kill my childhood pet today?!”
At this point Phil's brain must have registered two things: a) he screwed up, and b) Syl was NOT going to be happy with him when she found out that he had purposely delayed Hershey’s agony. If there was one person in our house that loved Hershey more than I, it was Syl. It was the one time that I was able to tell him “Wait until Mom gets home,” and sheer terror appeared on his face.
I can’t tell you what exactly Syl said to Phil when she got home (this is, after all, a family blog), but I can tell you that she was livid. All I remember seeing was a flurry of violent-looking hand gestures, finger pointing, clenched jaws and bulging eyes. In his defense, Phil was remorseful. He did take Hershey to the vet the next day, and the best dog that ever lived was finally laid to rest.
I wish I could say that Phil turned over a newer, more delicate leaf after this unfortunate incident, but that would be a lie. While you may be able to chastise an old dog for its insensitivity, you can't teach it new tricks.
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