Why Does That Stupid Book Always Make Me Cry?

© shoutingforha

The boy is required to read four novels every nine weeks for school. His latest selection has been Marley: A Dog Like No Other, by John Grogan, a special young reader's adaptation of the wildly popular Marley and Me: Life and Love With the World's Worst Dog. It's basically the same book as the original, only the few isolated instances of bad language and any off-color content have been removed.

My sister sent me a copy of Marley and Me when it first came out almost five years ago. She thought I would enjoy reading the book since we had just adopted our lovable mutt, Brick. My sister was right. Not only did I laugh at Marley's crazy antics, I cried like a baby when the dog died.

Sunday night, the boy was down to the last fifteen pages of the book. He knew that Marley's passing was just pages away and asked if I would mind reading the remainder of the book to him as he lay in bed. I agreed and then, in desperation, I repeatedly told myself, "I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry..."

It didn't work.

As I read about Marley's death, my throat began to get tight. The boy gave me a knowing glance and then pretended like he didn't notice. I cleared my throat and continued, tears leaking from my eyes. I still wasn't concerned. After all, I had already read the book. Surely I could hold it together this time.

Then I came to the part where the author has just finished digging Marley's grave. His children have written notes which are to be buried with their beloved pet, the oldest signing his note "Your brother..."

And that's when I lost it.

Tears poured down my cheeks and I could no longer speak. I was envisioning myself, years from now, digging a grave for Brick. The boy looked at me for a minute and then said, "Mama, maybe I should read to you for a little while." All I could do was nod and wipe my eyes.

After the book was finished, I kissed my boy goodnight and went to join my hubby in the den. One look at me and he asked, "Again? Are you crying over that silly dog book again?" I told him that I couldn't help it. That pesky John Grogan knows just how to prick my dog-loving heart.

Brick has manged to entangle himself into the deep corners of my heart in the same way that his fur is now woven into my sweaters and every rug in our home. I just can't imagine life without him.

My only hope is that Brick will live an unusually long and healthy life. Otherwise, I may find myself digging a beast-sized hole in the backyard at precisely the same time that my boy heads off to college. I better go stock up on some Kleenex.