You Made a Consequential Mistake

Can you ever forgive yourself?

On August 23, 2017, two days after a solar eclipse passed over the Pacific Northwest, my husband and 10-year-old son found our dog, Jake, dead in the passenger seat of our truck. Jake’s black-and-white coat still gleamed with health, but his desiccated eyes sunk inward, and his tongue had gone stiff. We had unknowingly left him in the truck for more than 24 hours. And until Dave found him, none of us had noticed his absence.

When Dave called to tell me the horrifying news, I was chaperoning our 13-year-old daughter and some friends at a swimming beach in Post Falls. After whispering into the phone, “What? No! How did that happen?” I asked my sobbing husband the most urgent question on my mind, “What will we tell people?”

Yes, in that moment of utter familial heartbreak, I worried what people would think. Some cold, calculating part of my brain tried to work out how I might maintain the fiction that I was an attentive, careful, and reliable person who would never make a mistake of this caliber.

The truth is, I was never an effusive dog lover. It wasn’t the kind to pull over and bring a roaming dog to safety. I didn’t kneel to hug dogs. My affection took the form of a pat on the head or an index finger down the bridge of the nose. If there was one command my dog knew by heart (because he heard it six times a day), it was “get out of the kitchen.” My primary form of interacting with Jake was hiking. We took to the trails once or twice a day all year round. He’d gallop ahead, catch a scent, swing around, and return to my side. In this one activity, Jake and I understood each other completely.

My all-season hiking buddy.

I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of my betrayal.

On the drive home, when I might have consoled my bereft daughter or mourned the death of our canine companion, I channeled my hemorrhaging shame into ruthless, self-directed anger. How could we have been so careless? How could we have let such a thing happen? Who does such a thing? I banged my hand on the steering wheel. Next to me, my daughter flinched.

We found my husband and son draped over Jake’s body in the backyard, heaving with tears. My daughter ran to them and wrapped her arms around them, and I marveled (with some envy) at their ability to be sad while I still shook with rage. I gathered a bucket and rag and set out to wash the passenger seat of the truck, which was damp with saliva. My husband came over, reached for my elbow, and reminded me that I could clean the truck later. “Right now,” he said, “let’s be together.”

He led me back to our kids and our lifeless family pet. I sat in self-conscious paralysis. What would a normal mother do? Should I stroke the dog? Should I put my arms around my son? Should I try weeping? Whatever came to mind felt choreographed and calculated. Thoughts raced through my brain: regrets, accusations, images. Jake panting, looking out the window, waiting. And no one came. My body shook, trembled, and went numb.

Our neighbors Dan and Martha, whose house was frequented by Jake at least as much as ours appeared in our backyard. Dan knelt on the ground and passed his big hand over Jake’s flank. “He was a good dog,” he said. Martha sighed and told us not to be too hard on ourselves. “It was an unfortunate mistake,” she said.

Later that evening, emails and text messages poured in from friends. They expressed condolences for our family. They asked if they could do anything for us. For us! I had expected punishment: physical beatings, a public shaming, some choice words. I lay awake in bed those first nights, unable to fathom their kindness. I received their grace with a mix of relief and apprehension. It would fall to me to deliver the punishment.

When no one else noticed the dog missing, I should have.

“At least we are all in this together,” my son said one night, a few days after the incident. “It would be harder if only one of us had left him in the car.” He was right, but in my twisted logic, I had already claimed full responsibility for our transgression. When no one else noticed the dog was missing, I should have.

The rest of the family started talking about a new puppy the following spring.

I wasn’t ready.

Each passing season they’d gang up on me to ask why I wasn’t ready and when might I be ready. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready. Finally, my husband got angry. “What’s your problem?” he asked.

Two years had passed since Jake’s death, and I was starting to feel rigid and joyless. I could see that I was depriving my family of an opportunity to start over, but I still didn’t think I deserved (or could be trusted with) a dog. Clearly, something was wrong with me, and it was time to pretend that I knew how to fix it.

I called Jake’s breeder. Bev is the kind of breeder who maintains a successful dog breeding operation inside her modest, neighborhood home. She doesn’t seem to mind the incessant barking, the dander, and the sharp, sour odor. She loves dogs that much. I spent a lot of uncomfortable time at her house when the kids were three and six, carefully selecting the puppy that would be called Jake. I hoped she wouldn’t remember me.

“Of course I remember you!” she said over the phone. “How is your dog?”

As I began to answer, I noticed that my son had wandered into the room and was watching and listening, and so I took the phone into the backyard. I told Bev that I was very sorry to report that Jake had died a couple years ago.

“Oh,” she said. “How did he die?”

“It was a car accident,” I said, hoping my son couldn’t hear me.

“He was hit by a car?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” I said, and tried to convince myself this wasn’t lying. I then made an appointment to see her new puppies. When I hung up, my son looked down at his feet and wiped something off his big toe.

I speed-dialed my husband. “I lied to the breeder,” I told him. “What should I do?”

“Heidi, you have to call her back,” he said. “Tell her the truth.” I turned to face the trees in the backyard. I couldn’t imagine redialing the breeder’s number. “Do it now before you lose your nerve,” he added. “You don’t want to get the kids caught up in a lie. You’ll feel better if you come clean.”

I hung up and looked back toward the house. My son still stood in the doorway. “You got this, mom,” he said, and gave me a thumbs-up. Our son was born with preternatural moral insight. He shared toys without being asked. Laid quietly when we put him down for naps. In pre-school, he’d hop in the car and ask, “How was your day, mom?” That he was giving me courage to face a deeply held fear was not out of character for him, but it did limit my choices. I couldn’t bail.

You got this, mom.

When the breeder answered the second time, I was sure she could hear my heart pounding through the phone. “I’m sorry,” I began, “but when I told you how Jake died, I was not telling the truth.” Through heaving sobs, I explained that we had left our dog to die in a hot car. We had committed a selfish, careless, negligent crime against a beautiful dog that had done nothing but seek our unconditional approval and offer his in return. We didn’t even notice he was missing. Through great gulping breaths, I told her that I probably shouldn’t be allowed to own another dog, and that it would be okay if she didn’t want to show me one.

When I finally came up for air, the breeder’s voice floated softly into my ear. "It's okay, honey. You poor thing. People make mistakes. It’s okay to try again." For a few awkward minutes, I wept while the dog breeder, whose house I had uncharitably disparaged, soothed me into quiet hiccupping breaths. I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I thought she was forgiving me.

Now I know she was giving me space to forgive myself. 

I thought of this story after launching this newsletter two weeks ago. For whatever protective reason (maybe because no one needs another email), I expected criticism, meticulous fact-checking, and general disappointment. Instead, I got a whole lot of messages of affirmation and encouragement. I even received generous pledges to support my work financially, should I ever wish to make this a paid thing. Thank you. I am blown away.

I am also terrified that I will disappoint you.

I am not, as you know, flawless. In choosing a theme, “The Good Question” I set myself up to reveal myself in ways I do not necessarily want to share. But I’m trying to become more comfortable revealing my not-so-sightly features. As my friend Stacy reminds me often, I have other strengths that, you know, balance out the disappointing stuff.

It has taken me a long time to write about Jake’s death. It was the saddest thing my young family had ever faced, and it broke our hearts. For a long time, I thought I was being correct and responsible when I refused to get another dog. I didn’t want to risk another act of neglect, another gruesome death, another heartbreak. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But my resistance to give myself (and my family) another chance was making it impossible for us to grow from the experience. We had no way of showing ourselves to be more capable than before, more attentive, more forgiving. I’m trying to do that now. I am trying to see failure—the risk of, the fear of, the act of—as the kind of shit that you can make into patties, dry in the sun, and use as fuel for growth. I hope you will join me around the fire.

Our new (now three-year-old) dog’s name is Finch. He adores snow and hates having his nails trimmed. He’s awesome on walks and frustratingly underfoot in the kitchen. He trusts me, and this feels like a divine kind of grace.

Finch, in his full puppy cuteness.