The Hyperion Chronicles

“Can viciousness be noble?

#385 Barry

On my 12^th birthday I was given a Springer Spaniel I named him Barry, after my favorite football player. By the end of March Barry was gone. In total, I had him less than three months. Yet, I still think about Barry often, and what might have been.

The truth—which I can now say without rancor—is that my parents never should have given me Barry. He wasn’t allowed to be an inside dog, and we didn’t have a large farm, or even a fenced-in yard for Barry to run around in. So, a few days after receiving him, Barry had to go outside.

January in Oregon is very cold. It wasn’t Siberia, but the ground would make your knees go numb in just a few seconds. This was Barry’s ground. Because we had no yard, we set up a clothes-line wire that ran from the house to the shed. Barry’s chain was connected to this wire, so he could at least run back and forth.

What I didn’t know was that every day when I’d head off to school Barry would see me and try to run after me. The chain and the collar would hold him back, choking him, and it rubbed his neck raw. We had to get this special ointment to put on his neck every night.

It was soon apparent that it wasn’t going to work. My dad took Barry to the animal shelter. I didn’t go. Everyone understood. To this day bringing up Barry is a sad subject in our house. My brother will get kind of quiet, my oldest sister more so. The youngest will practically tear up at the mention of his name.

The others were too young then to understand blame for the situation. They just remember it as sad. If they thought about it, they’d probably blame Mom and Dad for not letting Barry stay inside.

And while all of that may be true, the truth is, what they don’t know: Barry’s fate is my fault.

I can’t remember now why Barry couldn’t be inside. Perhaps it’s because we were renters, or my parents just didn’t want an inside dog. What I do know is that I didn’t fight hard enough for it. I complained and griped, but I didn’t press in that annoying single-purpose way kids have when they really want something. The truth is, I think I was somewhat relieved Barry had to be outside. I didn’t want to train him and clean up after him all the time.

Once he was out there, it was really my fault. I just didn’t go out to play with him enough. It was January and freezing; kneeling on the hard ground sucked. But Barry had to live out there all the time. The least I could do was play with him. I’d feed him twice a day, and play with him for about thirty seconds. Most of the time I wouldn’t even take him off the chain. I think about that now and it makes me so ashamed.

I was a busy kid. I had basketball and school. But that’s a pathetic excuse. Boys find time to do what they want to do. I’m sure I watched TV and movies, and I read more than any kid you’ve ever met. I might have made excuses to myself, but the truth was I had plenty of time to play with Barry. I just didn’t want to enough to go out there.

Maybe I didn’t like the situation. It always gave me a lump in my throat to see him on that chain. But neglecting him was inexcusable.

I didn’t know Barry was chasing after me and hurting his neck. But I should have known. If I’d spent more than a minute with him each day I’d have seen that mark, raw across his throat. If I took the stupid collar off every once in awhile I’d have seen it earlier. At that point I did realize what was going on I should have thrown a level-three fit to get Barry back inside. I didn’t.

When it came time to take Barry away, I didn’t go. I’m sure everyone thought the reason was because it was so hard for me. It was. But not for why they think. The real truth, was that even then, as full of lies and self-delusion as I was, I knew it was my fault. You can lie to yourself, but you can never fool yourself.

I knew how much I didn’t like going out there to the back yard. I knew that I ended up resenting Barry for taking up so much of my time, the hassle with feeding and then his ointment for his throat. It wasn’t his fault, but I resented it all anyway. Is that why I didn’t play with him more? I don’t know. I think I was just a selfish kid.

I failed Barry. I loved him, but not enough to do the things he’d needed. It was almost like I loved the idea of having a dog more than actually having one. So I didn’t go the shelter that day. I didn’t want to look in his eyes when saying goodbye. We didn’t have him very long, but I think he loved me. He wouldn’t have wanted to go away from me, even if it meant no more cold hard ground and hurtful chain.

I was abandoning him. I didn’t fight for him. When the decision was made I just passively accepted it like it was fated by the universe, and I had nothing to do with it but face the situation with stoicism. What a lie. I let my dog get taken to the pound through neglect, laziness, and a lack of commitment from a kid who had better things to do. I let someone else do the hard job of taking him to the pound and leaving him to his fate: to be rescued by a family more caring than I, or to be euthanized. Even back then the idea that I might have killed my dog made me throw up. But it didn’t bother me enough to have acted differently.

I don’t know why that is. I just know that I’m sorry Barry. I really miss you.

Hyperion
April 7, 2006