It's What Dads Do

This post, initially, was going to be about our family dog, Rocko.  After over 16 years of companionship, Rocko died.

To say that he "died" is the kind way of saying he was "put down," the latter being both a recognition that at such an advanced age the death was likely welcome and necessary but equal acknowledgment that death is against the base nature of all creatures, even if it's for their own aged good. 

But instead of Rocko, this post will be about my Dad, who did the dirty work today.  My mom and sister are out of town, and I was in a hearing until late and could not join Dad at the vet.  I should be more honest about that.  It's true, the hearing ran late.  And it's true that the trek from downtown St. Paul to my parents' particular suburb in rush hour is especially harrowing.  But in all likelihood, had I wanted to watch Rocko die, I could have done so.  I could have been there. I just didn't want to go.

I imagine Dads get stuck with these tasks often, the painful jobs that make the rest of the family uncomfortable.  I'm sure it isn't strictly my family where this tends to be the case.  It's a bit stereotypical, I realize, but my Dad has always been the Rescuer and my Mom has always been the Healer.  The former gets far less praise than the latter as being Rescued, more often than not, does not feel particularly awesome.  It usually involves late night phone calls when the bills can't be paid, middle-of-the-work-day phone calls sobbing over car breakdowns (maybe this is just me), stressed out quasi-arguments over finances, life plans, big decisions, and stupid mistakes. Dad rescues.  He makes the plan.  He solves the problem.  He swoops in and makes everything okay.  But it's generally Mom's sweet "I love you"s and teardrop-drying that wins the smile.

Rocko is no exception.  Rocko has been a part of our family for sixteen years.  My sister, at 18, cannot remember a home without his once frenetic activity and more recent soft, elderly plodding. We've discussed Rocko's demise often over the last year.  His eyesight had failed him, he often seemed confused, it hurt him to move, and he was sleeping for longer and longer portions of the day.  Months ago we spoke about these things in a "we" voice, communal, a team.  But over the last few weeks as the decision grew closer, I'm sure Dad sensed the womenfolk's shying away from responsibility.  As Rocko is truly my brother's dog, I'm sure my little brother would have joined Dad.  But distance makes that difficult and so my Dad probably knew he'd be doing this alone.

I know that there have been a million moments in my thirty years on this planet in which my father has taken an arrow so that I avoided harm.  And I imagine the vast majority of those bruises were things I'd never know about.  Attendance at piano recitals after hours spent commuting between jobs, cheering me on at softball games despite who knows what plumbing disaster, helping me with homework on days he was exhausted.  And those are just the ones that I can fathom.  There were many, many more incremental sacrifices, small moments of which I have no knowledge where he chose my benefit and the benefit of my siblings over his comfort. 

So now, a few days before Father's Day, I am thankful for my Dad.  Not only for shepherding our family dog into death, but for all the other large and small rescues and sacrifices that he has accumulated over his 30 years of fatherdom.  There is no doubt in my mind that a large portion of my happiness today is owed to the man who has constantly worked to make sure my happiness was possible, achievable, and supported.  I don't say thank you enough and I imagine I don't know half of what I should be thanking him for.  So, thank you, Dad, for Rocko, for the sacrifices I know nothing about, and for all those rescues, large and small, literal and figurative, that made life infinitely sweeter. I love you!