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Fargo


Many people have had pets die on them. There is a heavy finality to it when someone you care about dies. Nevertheless, it is commonly understood that everything either dies or is dead, and that the world continues to march on into the future with or without your loved ones. Children learn to except death as a part of living from early ages- it is just a part of life. Notwithstanding, a natural death is one thing, but when someone you care about deeply kills your loved one, it is a harder thing to deal with.
I have had two Siberian huskies throughout time, and both are dead today. One got sick and died while still a puppy, and as sweet as that one was, I do not miss her as much as the one that was taken from me. I was in the 8th grade when my first dog Fargo breathed his last breath.
Fargo was a good-looking animal. His fur was reddish brown on his back and snow white on his belly, legs, and much of his face. He was about 60 pounds, a medium sized dog. His long fluffy tail was about 16 inches long, brown on the top, white on the bottom. His inquisitive brown eyes matched the color of his soft shiny coat.
Fargo was for the most part a well-mannered dog, but he would growl at you if you touched him while he was eating, or if you stuck your hand through the gate pickets at him. He had bitten my dad, my dad’s girl friend, and myself on such occasions. Eventually, one of my dad’s guests from Alaska pet him through the fence and kept going till he bit her hand. Afterwards my dad told me that we would have to put Fargo down, or risk facing charges.
Julie, my Dad’s friend from Alaska, decided to go to the hospital after she got bit, so it was in the public record. That meant that if Fargo ever bit anyone else, and they somehow knew about this incident, or for some reason hired a private investigator, they had an extremely remote chance of discovering that obscure information. If this highly unlikely event were to occur, than they would have a strong case against my dad for negligence. Of coarse the real reasons were that he was afraid someone else would get bit, and he had a strong grudge against the dog ever since it bit him.
One time at our country farm he had offered Fargo a cookie sheet of grease and fats from the scallops wrapped in bacon we had cooked. As Fargo happily licked the shallow rectangular pan, the liquid all went to one side. Upon seeing this, my dad held up one end of the pan to spill the liquid back over to Fargo’s side. Fargo however saw a hand taking his delicious yellow oils away, and made a frustrated dog noise before sinking his fangs into my dad’s palm. After this my Dad yelled like he had been shot and fiercely kicked Fargo out the door. He felt betrayed; he was trying to help the dog, and it bit him. I don’t think he ever forgave Fargo for that, and the only reason he did not get rid of Fargo then was for my sake.
Fargo had been abused as a puppy. We got him from the animal shelter for $13. Two 4 year olds used to harass him before he was put in the animal shelter. For a dog that grew up with such torment, he was surprisingly calm and well adjusted. I was very surprised that he bit my dad, but my father would later use Fargo’s upbringing as justification for calling him a “defective dog.” I suspect that as a puppy they used to give him food and then take it away from him, and poke him with sticks while he was in a cage. (This would explain Fargo’s defensiveness over his food and his disposition toward being touched through barriers).
Before Julie came back from the hospital with a bandaged hand a few hours later, my dad had informed me that Fargo had to go. I can’t remember what my dad told me that night other than that he could be held liable if he did not do this. I remember Julie, white woman in her 50’s, trying to console me about the fact that Fargo’s days were numbered. “Everything will be all right,” she said. No, not everything would be right, how more blatant of a lie could one make? “These things happen, its okay, it’s all part of a plan” she continued, implying that this was God’s will. I certainly did not glean any comfort from the idea that an invisible all-powerful tyrant in the clouds wanted my happiness put to sleep and placed in an incinerator.
The next day I was informed that Fargo had ten days left to live. I can’t remember very well those last walks that I took with Fargo. He was as always his jolly self, ignorant to his impending doom. When I stopped mid walk, got down on my knees, and hugged him for a while, he seemed very confused for the moment, but then proceeded to lick my face. Normally I stand up when he licks my face, but that time, I just let him keep going for several minutes.
I have uncovered some things I wrote in those days, and some pictures I drew. They portrayed my dad as getting malignant enjoyment out of Fargo’s death. These pictures also depict Fargo as screaming in pain as several lawn-dart sized needles are brutally thrust into his back by a euthanasia technician. I wrote about how he wanted Fargo to die. He had been saying Fargo was a “defective dog”, and I had suggested in my writings that the real problem was a “defective dad”. I had even threatened to stop doing my homework, cleaning up and compared him to Hitler.
However, in the days before that day I would give Fargo no more walks, my dad, having read my pained scribblings, sat down with me and gave me a list headed “possible courses”. It lists 6 things, 4 of them crossed off. I do not remember my dad’s logic behind each of the crossed out options, but do nothing, defang, and behavior training were all crossed off the list. Euthanize is also crossed off, but in a different pen, so I wonder if that happened afterward. The two left unmarked are permanent muzzle and give away with disclosure.
Whatever my dad had told me, I was prepared to except that I wouldn’t see Fargo again. The next mourning, I simply walked away. I did not say goodbye to Fargo. I just went to school knowing that the dog I loved, who loved me back, was going to die that day. At the time I was convinced there were no other options, so I just turned my back on a family member and marched on with the rest of the world.
Never before had I had a friend taken away from me and killed. Perhaps what made it hurt the most is that I felt like it didn’t have to happen, but I was powerless to do anything. It opened my eyes in a graphic way to the fact that humanity does not value non-human life very much. I guess it is the animal’s fault for not picking a human womb to be born from.