Titan

It was a normal Friday for any other person, but not me, and especially not for my dog. It was the start of a regular weekend during my 8th grade year. Closer to the end of the day, the time read 7:00—the time for our other parent to pick us up for custody—an opportune moment for Titan, who had only run away once before, to make a run. And he did, with no obstructions. Why would my father chase the unfamiliar dog? It was my mother’s problem anyways. Me and my siblings are ready to leave, and worried not to agitate our parent, we take their attitude towards the issue—though chasing would never have helped. I get in the passenger seat of the truck and my siblings into the back.

We had only been driving for a very short time when we came across it. A slightly large dog laying on its side next to the road—having been dragged from the road by a family who lived in a house that strangely faced the road.

“That’s him,” I barely managed to tell my parent.

He was still alive, having an unfamiliar breathing pattern. His collar with decorative outward metal spikes showed signs of being dragged too much distance along the road upon being hit. He was limp and breathing was all he did.

My parent takes quick action and tells me to hold the dog while he started the route for the nearest vet. During the ride, Titan made no real signs of being aware—and at some point, blood started coming from his mouth. It was becoming increasingly clear why his breathing was off. My mind and heart half were shattered seeing him this way. The drive wasn’t very long, and yet it also took much too long.

I do not remember the events of when we arrived at the vet, but they had taken Titan and were likely running some of their initial tests. My mother shortly arrives—and since my parents aren’t on good terms my father steps out of the building.

Eventually the workers signify that they are ready to give an idea of what’s going on and what’s wrong. There were clear signs of brain damage, many broken bones, and heavy damage to one of their lungs. They then went into the details of what the chances are and what the costs could become. Even with an unlikely recovery, they could not tell what his functioning might be with the brain damage—if he would become aggressive to people or some other effect. Attempting treatment could simply prolong suffering. Uncontrollable tears flowed from my face, and uncontrollable tears from my mother seeing me this way flowed down hers.

“What do you want to do?” My mother asks me, clearly signaling I had a choice.

I most certainly did not want to take away his chance at recovery—but I knew the facts. If we were to attempt treatment, he would suffer the entire time. We would lose a lot of money. If even a miracle, we’d need another.

I do not remember the exact response I gave, but I declined to attempt further treatment. His fate was then sealed by me—no longer was there a small chance of recovery, but none.

We were then invited into the room where Titan lay to say our goodbyes. He still seemed unaware, still limp, and still breathing a bit off, though less so than before. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, so I simply pet him some for the last time.

It would be easy to blame anyone or anything for their death. My parent who did not chase, me or my siblings who continued with routine, the other pet who had essentially taught them how to run away, the custody arrangement, the driver who hit him, or even the fact that I had not yet trained him not to run away—which I worked a lot to train him, and my mother had me in a sort of dog training class with locals. Ultimately, there was no point of blame in my view. At most, it would be a mix of all, but strangely none of it really matters to me—maybe it does, and maybe it pales in comparison to my direct denial of his any chance of recovery.

I am a person who had always kept my emotions well in check and had a sort of stoic face displayed for others. The death of Titan helped me see that I do care about others, even if not always aware—that I wasn’t some sort of monster who didn’t care about others. When I went back to school the following Monday, I continued with my stoic face even through the difficult parts of the day. Perhaps my acting was perfect, but none noticed anything was off, even among the few friends I had managed to gain. It prompted me to realize that perhaps even if they did notice, they wouldn’t care. In this society where most want to be noticed, this ugly society came about where most care not to notice others. I went from seeing myself as an indifferent individual to a bit of an empathetic one.