Me First

Why am I so sad over the death of a dog? He was a dog and he was ill and he was old, at least in dog years. But still, I am sick over it. Add to that the fact that I ordered his death, believing it to be the most humane course of action, and guilt compounds my grief. Did we spend enough money first? Did he get sick enough? Some friends advised we wait longer until Rufus was worse, so we could be absolutely sure we made the right decision.

Today life is bleak. I keep crying, not steadily of course but from time to time and at random, and frequently. However, I am not sad over the deaths of people I read about in the paper every day. Like today, for example, in the Wall Street Journal, I learned the following: In central Florida two motorcycles collided, killing a 48-year-old male, the driver of one of them, and a 46-year-old female passenger on the other. I read that without flinching. I didn't care at all. In fact, if pressed I would probably say, everyone knows motorcycles are dangerous.

Yet I don't tell myself, everyone knows dogs die sooner than we do. Sooner than we want or expect. Leaving a hole. Why does his death hurt me so much more than that of the two motorcyclists? Is it because he was my dog? Am I so much more important than others? I don't think so.

I am not unusual in this department: Most people care first and foremost about themselves, their friends, their families, their pets, and then slowly move out to caring about friends of friends and business associates and someone they met for ten minutes at a party and even Charlie Sheen, much more than about strangers like me, mourning my  dead dog. Why is that?