My dog, Tank, was a precious creature that saw no dividing lines
By Ruth Marcus,
Twelve years ago I betrayed my husband. It was the best decision I ever made.
The betrayal came in the form of a 12-pound fluff ball named Tank. I got the dog in defiance of my husband’s declaration that our family was not getting a dog — not then, not ever. I adopted Tank behind my husband’s back, enlisting our daughters, then 11 and 13, as co-conspirators. Tank arrived, as I wrote at the time, as a pet accompli, too late for my husband to do anything about it.
“I can’t believe you did this,” he said, except for the expletive I have deleted, when he came home late from work to discover our newest family member. It took about 10 minutes, and as many face licks, for Jon to fall in love.
The rest of us already had, which was the point: Tank joined our family at a time when our lives were too chaotic to accommodate a dog but too stressed to be without one. None of us had ever had a dog before, but we understood, intuitively, that we needed the unconditional love that only a dog can provide.
Tank overperformed. At moments when our family was under stress, the one thing we could always agree on was that Tank was the best, the cutest dog ever. When we were in a better place, he remained at the center of our family unit, no matter how many shoes he destroyed. “Huggee!” we would yell, embracing, and Tank would come running to join. With him, we were a pack.
We lost Tank in the wee hours of Saturday morning — suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically. We stood outside the animal hospital, unable to enter because of covid-19, holding one another and sobbing until we could say goodbye to our boy in the makeshift space in the parking garage. There is so much sadness in the world right now; there are so many worse and more consequential stories, and yet we are shattered. What we wouldn’t do to slip him one last morsel from the dinner table.
The reason I am writing is not Tank’s death but its aftermath. In the strain of the pandemic, in the heat of police shootings, the social fabric is fraying. You can hear it rip. If there was a communitarian, we’ll-get-through-this-together ethos at the start of the lockdowns, it has been replaced by a my-way mentality. Thanks to President Trump, mask-wearing has become political statement, not social responsibility.
We spent the summer in Wyoming, and driving home across the country (Tank was never happier than when ensconced in the car for long stretches with his people), we encountered instance after instance — at the hotel in North Dakota, the restaurant in Minnesota where we stopped for takeout, the rest stop in Indiana — of behavior that was not only irresponsible but aggressively so.
When I asked a man at the rest stop — a rest stop whose doors proclaimed “Masks Required” — to wear a mask, he said I was free to do so for my health, but he chose not to. And when I pointed out that, actually, his mask-wearing protected me, and vice versa, it didn’t take long for him to start yelling about Joe Biden. I know: stupid, foolhardy me, to try to engage.
And when I tweeted about my experiences, the reaction was not exactly charitable. “Ruth apparently didn’t even end up testing positive after her trip,” wrote one person. “Too bad that she didn’t at least manage to add to the case count.” Nice. Sorry to disappoint.
I took to Twitter again, in the hours after Tank’s death, to share my grief. The platform that can be so ugly and so hate-filled responded this time with overwhelming love. From people I knew, from strangers, offering condolences and sharing their own sad experiences. It was an enormous, unexpected comfort. We looked at the pet pictures they posted and read the stories they shared of their own dog’s passing, and wept.
What does it say that an audience that can be so cruel and ugly can be so generous and compassionate? The more cynical interpretation is that we are a country that tends to care more about pets than people, and there is some unfortunate truth to that. I have a reporter friend who many years ago wrote a Christmas Day story about homeless people living under a bridge with their dogs. His voice mail was filled with offers of help — from people wanting to adopt the dogs.
But I think our capacity to love our pets speaks to a better side of human nature. Perhaps it takes a nonhuman to bring out the humanity in us, but that spark is still present. It requires careful kindling by leaders who summon our better angels; it can be snuffed out by those who fan the flames of hatred and discord.
We are Rest Stop Twitter, angry and vindictive, but we are also Tank Twitter, full of boundless affection, even for strangers. Tank didn’t see either — he saw humans to love, even if part of their attraction was that they might have treats.
If he could, Tank would lick all your faces. Every last one.
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Read more: Marc A. Thiessen: I tweeted about my mother’s covid-19 diagnosis — and then the spiritual floodgates opened Julie Riekse: This is my sixth self-quarantine. We’ll get through it — somehow. Lori Gottlieb: The surprising intimacy of online therapy sessions during the pandemic Whitney Ellenby: I put off explaining death to my autistic son. Covid-19 convinced me I couldn’t wait any longer. Abigail Marsh: How fear can help us as lockdowns come to an end
