Just a Tail
I was hesitant to write this article because it’s only been two months since my Gummi Bear passed. I remember her as if it were yesterday. Her sparkly eyes and playful spirit—she was always the first to jump in her carrier before any of us headed out the door. She always wanted to be included and made her presence known, whether we wanted her around or not (I remember my leg falling asleep numerous times because she had fallen asleep on them, while I was putting makeup on). Gummi Bear, though I never planned on taking her home when I saw the “Dogs for Sale” sign in front of the Wal-Mart, knew we were meant to be together.
Through the years, Gummi Bear taught me what it was like to love unconditionally—a significant lesson given I never had a best friend in elementary school or growing up as a child. Gummi Bear became my companion, and she allowed me to face the world fearlessly. For instance, she would perk up and run to any stranger who would give her attention. Some parents may teach their children to stay away from strangers, but she taught me the opposite. The world still had a lot of good, and it was up to me to receive it with open arms. Another unforgettable trait was that she appeared naïve and clueless but had a tender heart, which could have melted the coldest soul. Also, she had a sense of awe and enjoyed the simple things in life. She wanted one thing and one thing only: companionship. I cherish the moments she would sit by my feet and even my dad’s feet when we were busy working on our laptops. She was satisfied as long as her fur was in contact with us, even if it was just one butt cheek.
I remember screaming down the streets of our neighborhood the night she disappeared. We thought she may have been hiding under our house, given there was another instance she hid under our kitchen sink without saying a word. Needless to say, Gummi Bear did not come back this time. I will never forget feeling exhausted and drained. All I wanted was to rest, but my mind could not rest. I was determined to find her and climbed over the fence of our back lot to make my finals rounds. My eyes were scanning every square inch of the empty lot, which was trashed with empty beer bottles and wrappers from the KFC down the street. I was ready to give up when I saw something in the sand. It was a faint detail of what appeared to be hair of some sort, but I drew closer. Wailing and screaming words cannot describe the anguish I felt inside. It was a nightmare come true, and I had never clutched a part of her so tight in all my life. All that was left of her was her tail. It was white with a streak of brown down the middle. She was gone, and it was now a reality.
The next several days were a blur. I cannot say I remember much, except that I was not frantically checking shelters or online sites in hopes of finding her anymore. I was grieving her loss, and it was as if time stood still. My mom and I spent the next several nights crying in our bed. We missed her, and it would never be the same without her. Thankfully, the shadow of gloom slowly faded after several days of grieving tirelessly. Shortly afterwards, my mom and I decided to go eat breakfast at a favorite local café of ours. We were still in shock from her death and remained silent for most of the meal. I was trying to stay focused on eating my meal; however, this lady sitting next to us kept asking us questions. She asked about my bean soup and commented on how good her salad was as if she was advertising for the restaurant. I would have been annoyed by any other person, but I was drawn to her. There was a humanistic spirit about her, and I sensed she really cared about connecting with me. The exchanges between bites soon turned into an engaging conversation, and I felt something telling me to open up about my experience with Gummi Bear. Her kind words and sympathy soon got me wondering if she was a therapist because of how understanding she was. My curiosity couldn’t be contained, and I finally blurted, “Are you a teacher or something?”
Immediately, she covered her mouth as if she had given away a fatal secret. I became relieved as she reached out her hand and introduced herself as Karen Sharp from KOST 103.5. I was star struck. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom and I had listened to KOST shortly before coming to breakfast. The radio’s a favorite pastime for my family, and it’s rare for my mom to even know the names of celebrities. However my mom, to my dismay, busted out her Blackberry phone and requested a photo with Karen. Karen, being a good sport, smiled and posed for all three pictures without a single complaint. She even offered to honor Gummi Bear on the radio that night and told us to stay tuned at seven ‘o clock.
That night, I made sure we turned on the radio ten minutes before seven. My mom and I made spaghetti in the kitchen and eagerly waited for our KOST dedication to Gummi Bear. It soon came, but to our surprise, she said Gum Drop instead of Gummi Bear. My mom and I took one quick look at each other and burst out laughing. She clearly did not take note that our dog was Gummi Bear and not, Gum Drop. That was the moment I realized, how thankful I was to have had her in my life. She continued to make me smile and laugh even after her death. She was selfless and loving in every way possible—her tail was a reminder of how she wanted me to smile. It was a symbolic part of her body given her tail wagged with happiness whenever we were together. She wanted me to remember our good times and not dwell on the fact she was gone.
I admit, I shed a tear writing all these things in her memory. She seems far and close all at the same time, but I know finding her tail allowed me to find closure in her passing. Through this, I sensed God cared about me enough to leave a short, little tail to tell me that He wants me to move on with life. I used to hide behind Gummi Bear when I faced the world. Her tail was indication that it was time for me to be my own person and face the world with courage as she did. I like to think she passed trying to protect my family from wild animals. She was not undermined by her size and fought to the death for our family as a sure sign of her loyalty to us. Her life was a gift, and I’m a better person because of her undying love and companionship for seven beautiful years. I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I’m sure she will be there. It wouldn’t be quite “heaven” without her tail on my feet, as I imagine it would be if I do see her again, one day.
Crystal Um is a project manager for Family Building Ministries. She lives in Redlands, California and is pursing a graduate degree in speech therapy.