Film and television writer A.J. Symon shares the lessons our pets teach us and how writing his debut novel, Golden Boy (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 25), helped him cope with the loss of his beloved service dog.
I’m not a crier.
Let me correct that: I used to not be a crier. I cry a lot now. And that’s a good thing.
My family doesn’t cry. We don’t hug. We’re not given to overt displays of emotion at either end of the spectrum. I’m not sure exactly why, but I suppose it’s the fear that one might lose control. And that would be worse than unseemly; it would be tacky.
Growing up, there was only one member of the entire family who was allowed to display or to receive any kind of emotion: our dog.
The dog was allowed to jump up and slobber you with kisses. When he tracked mud all over the house, his only punishment was an indulgent smile.
And you could hug him. You could pet him and scratch his belly and tell him you loved him, and no one thought it embarrassing in the least. It was, in fact, the only affection my parents ever displayed toward anyone in the family throughout the entirety of my youth. The dog was the beneficiary of all their repression.
That stoicism would haunt me more than half my life. Even when my father died, I didn’t cry. No one did. We sat at his memorial service with the appropriate composed expressions, and then went home, where some of us, I assume, took off our stiff upper lips and had a good, solitary cry. I never did. Repressing emotion was so ingrained by then; I prided myself on my resilience.
Years later, I was diagnosed with a seizure disorder. That was when I met my service dog, a golden retriever named Chip. Even as a writer, I can’t find words that do our relationship justice. Imagine a divine being who is your constant companion, your caretaker, your child, your confidante, your cheerleader, your guardian angel, your best friend, your soul. He was that and so much more, for 10 years. I was reared to love dogs—taught that it was safe to love dogs—and I loved Chip with unrestrained abandon.
Two years ago, I lost Chip to a cancer so aggressive that by the time symptoms presented, it was too late. He was diagnosed on Wednesday and gone on Thursday. It broke me. I had no tools to deal with that kind of grief. I spent hours trying to distract myself with TV and books, but I was haunted by that empty spot where Chip should be.
At some point, I went to my desk and started writing. I became consumed with an idea I had years ago about a dog who becomes a human football star.
The story became my novel Golden Boy…
