Dogs/Family/Relationships

One Life at a Time

My Dog was My Grandpa

When I was young, I was a true-blue believer in reincarnation. Specifically, when I was looking at our family’s golden retriever, Nellie. One night, over dinner, it became clear to me that she was my grandpa on my mother’s side. We had lost him a few years before to cancer. He was my first gut-wrenching loss, and it came as no surprise to me that he would return to us.

“Mom,” I said. “I think Nellie is grandpa.”

“You do?” She responded.

“I’m pretty sure.”

We looked over at the dog who was lying comfortably on a circular knot rug.

“C’mere, grandpa!” I said, calling her.

She stood, downward dogged, and walked over to me. I scratched her back, and she settled onto the floor, belly up. Standard grandpa behavior.

Mom pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, squinting at the blissed-out redhead lying on the dining room floor. Mom possessed two qualities that I did not. She was a realist, and she was an adult. But we had one thing in common. We missed her father.

“C’mere Daddy,” mom called, dubiously. When Nellie didn’t immediately respond, mom shrugged and continued to roll her pasta onto her fork.

I looked over at mom and shook my head. Skeptic.

“Grandpa doesn’t think that you believe it’s him,” I said.

She bit her lip and looked closely at the dog again. She leaned forward on her chair and clapped her hands together.

“C’mere Daddy,” she said, more enthusiastically, more hopefully.

Nellie rolled her head over in mom’s general direction.

“C’mere, Daddy!” She said again, this time more willfully, making her seem more like Grandpa’s daughter and less like my mother.

Grandpa had once told me, “Your mother was a willful child.” In the 50s, this was not something girls were supposed to be.

Nellie walked over, tentatively. She didn’t run over. She was still gauging whether or not mom was a believer.

Mom once said to me, “People didn't talk to their kids in the 50s like they do now. You were either well-behaved or naughty. There wasn’t a lot of gray area as far as behavior was concerned.”

“C’mon Daddy,” mom lightly pleaded. Nellie’s neck lowered, differentially, as she completed her walk over to mom.

Mom placed Nellie’s head between her knees and scratched the back of her neck. Nellie moved her neck around so mom would reach all her nooks.

And just like that, all was well with the world, as far as I was concerned. Grandpa had been identified. He didn’t have to spend one more second convincing us that he had returned.

As mom scratched Nellie’s ears, I thought about how mom was Grandpa’s difficult daughter. She told us that growing up. I’m not judging. I was my mother’s difficult daughter.

I did also wonder why grandpa returned to mom? If she’d been so tough. Why not go live with his well-behaved daughter or his dutiful son? Why her? Maybe he just wanted mom to scratch him behind the ears. When I asked her about him, she said, “Daddy was an easy parent.” Maybe he knew she’d take him on a lot of walks.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he remembered that my mom liked dogs better than his other daughter and that his son was allergic to them?

Now, I’m older and I still believe in reincarnation. Not feverishly. I’m not sitting next to you at a dinner party telling you people are coming back as butterflies, though I’m fairly certain my father came back as a ladybug. There needs to be a ladybug around, however, for me to bring that up.

Here’s how I believe in reincarnation now. If someone were to tell me that their daughter is their grandmother, I totally get it. I’m nodding. I believe you. But where I see reincarnation the most clearly is in the eyes of a dog.