Broken Hearted at Six Years Old

When my cousin left for studies overseas, he gave his dog to me. Well, technically it was a bitch. She was a beautiful black & light-coloured German Shepherd cross – in those days in Penang, German Shepherds were known as Alsatians.

A wonderful and very affectionate doggy, she trailed my movements everywhere. We decided from the very start that we loved each other.

Each weekday when I was about to leave for school, I had trouble restraining her from following me. I truly love her - note the ‘present tense’! - yes, even her memory till today.

Once I was home from school we were constantly together, until I had to leave for school again the following morning. I fed, bathed, combed, walked, tickled, talked and played with her. When I wasn’t doing any of that, say during studies or at meals, she would lie at my feet, waiting patiently for me to finish.

My father disliked her for the reason she was a bitch. Bitches would go into seasonal heat. That’s just nature, but for my father (and most Chinese in those days), it was an embarrassment when the neighbourhood canine Romeos congregated in passionate hope outside our fenced garden. There was no such thought as de-sexing a bitch in those days. My old man decided to give her away.

As fate conspired against me, there was a farmer, a friend of one of my cousins, who wanted a dog. My cousin had extolled her (my dog’s) wonderful qualities. So it was all decided, except for one vital item – I wasn’t consulted.

Oh no! I was just a mere kid and no one, least of all my father, ever consulted a kid. Worse, I wasn’t even informed of my father’s cruel decision.

Unaware of the tragedy about to unfold, I came home from school one afternoon (I think it was a Friday) to find my cousin and my father waiting for me. The old man didn’t waste time – he instructed me to have a quick lunch, then get my dog and hop into my cousin’s car, for she was to be given to a friend in Balik Pulau.

I was shell-shocked. My lips trembled as I tried very bravely to hold back my tears. My father was completely oblivious to my feelings. What feelings? I was just a kid!

To him, kids weren’t entitled to feelings but rather, firm parental control and instructions. Kids must do what parents required of them - my father required me to escort the dog to the recipient of the gift, and I must obey.

In those days, interaction between parents and children were fairly simple and straightforward. Based on filial piety, family duty and son'ly discipline, the operative words were complete and total obedience.

How could I eat under those emotionally wretched circumstances, but nonetheless, eat I must, because my father had so decreed. Alone in the seclusion of the kitchen I lost control and wept shamelessly as any frightened and traumatised child would, sobbing spasmodically even as I performed my duty - yes, I cried for myself, but I had to eat for my father.

Did my abundant falling tears mask the tastelessness of the food? I can't remember, for I was then utterly heart broken.

The trip took around 40 minutes, but it was a terrible 40 minutes for I knew that at the end of the journey I would lose my dog forever.

I was in a daze, battered by my own helplessness, hopelessness and growing sorrow. My cousin, sensing my unusual quiet self, and perhaps even realising my feelings, tried to cheer me up but he might as well try reversing his car all the way to Balik Pulau.

The dog was obviously going to be in good hands for the farmer’s children took to her immediately, but that was of small comfort to me. When I left with my cousin after the mandatory polite interval, I made the mistake of looking back. She was frantically pulling at the leash to come after me, barking-calling to me. My broken heart shattered even further into a zillion pieces. It was the most heart-wrenching moment for a 6-year old boy.

I never saw her again, for Balik Pulau to a kid was as far away as the moon was from Ayer Itam.

From time to time, my cousin would relate news of how well she got along with the farmer’s children and how much they loved her. He meant well, intending to show that the dog was properly looked after. But each word was like a piercing sharp knife in my already broken heart.

When she had puppies, we were given one of them – male of course, for my father wasn’t going to have a bitch again. It was a magnificent specimen, but to me, he wasn’t like his mother. Three months later, my father decided that keeping a German Shepherd was too expensive and gave him away to another cousin. Though I hadn’t yet developed the same degree of love I have for my first dog, I was made to suffer the same sad process of escorting the dog to the new owner.

After my father passed away and I grew up, I became more and more conscious of what had happened, especially about his total callousness towards my 6-year-old feelings on those sad events. I may well be wrong in this unfortunate perception, for he was probably conducting himself under the mores of yesteryears, but nonetheless it’s a perception I have harboured for years.

Till today I still cannot forget what had been done to me on a sad Friday afternoon. Each time I remember my first dog, a bitter tear would fall silently in my heart.

We two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years - Lord Byron