Ode to Abbie

Jack Mazur is a father, pharmacist, author, and eating disorder advocate. He is Vice-President of The Emilee Connection, co-author of Emilee: The Story of a Girl and Her Family Hijacked by Anorexia, and co-hosts the eating disorder and mental health podcast, Once Shattered: Picking Up the Pieces. In addition, Jack is a devoted dog father.

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For those of you who have not owned a pet, or those of you who do not understand why sixty- six percent of U.S. households, almost eighty-seven million people own a pet, you may not understand why I am writing this story.

For my eighth birthday, my parents bought me a dog. As it turned out this was not just a dog. Skippy, as I named her because she was the color of Skippy Peanut Butter, my favorite. She was a beautiful cocker spaniel puppy. From the time I got her, she was my dog. She followed me everywhere. Back then in our neighborhood, there was verry little traffic. Skippy was not leashed most of the time on walks. She stayed right next to us and obeyed when told to heel. Skippy slept with me at the end of my bed, and on the couch when watching TV. She even napped with me in the hammock in our backyard. Everyone knew Skippy, she would visit the neighbor’s yard, and she became known as the neighborhood dog.

When I was ten, we took a trip to Florida, as my dad was a union rep for the AFL-CIO, and they had a convention in Miami. I stayed in Pensacola with my aunt and uncle. It was nice being there, but after a few days I just wanted to go home. I missed my dog. The moment we pulled in our driveway, I bolted out of the car and ran to my grandma’s house, just down our street, to pick up Skippy.

By the time I went off to college, Skippy was getting older, but still active, with no serious medical issues. However, upon returning home for a visit in 1976, I was not in the house for a minute, when I asked my mother where the dog was. With tears in her eyes, she told me that Skippy went lame and could hardly walk. My mother was not able to carry her anymore. She had to put our beloved Skippy to sleep. Although I had not been living at home, and not seen my dog that much, the loss was devastating. It was like the death of a best friend. And it was.

I have had several dogs since Skippy and loved and cared for them all. In 2007, we drove to Syracuse and bought an eight-week-old Havanese puppy and named her Abbie. She was white in color and so tiny, weighing only two pounds. We also had a two-year-old West Highland White named Oliver. It took him a couple of weeks to get used to sharing us and the house with Abbie, but soon they were best friends.

From the beginning Abbie was a lap dog. Originally, Tenerife dogs, they came to Cuba with Spanish farmers and noblemen in the 1500s; there they developed into the Havanese breed and became family pets and are known as lap dogs.

Abbie could be independent for sure, but loved attention from friends and family, and anyone who wanted to pick her up and hold her. She would bark when people came to the house, but her bark and tail wagging was her way of saying, “Pick me up.” When they did, she would stop barking. She got what she wanted. 

In 2010, we had to have our put Oliver down because he began biting. It was heart-breaking. No one could figure out why this started, but he could not be trained to stop. It was so sad not to have Oliver, and Abbie missed him immensely, so we decided to get another Havanese, and we named her Gracie.

Gracie and Abbie were best friends from the start. Gracie looked to Abbie as her mother. They were not the best passengers in the car but loved being a part of family vacations and reunions when we arrived at our destination. As wonderful a dog as Gracie is, there was an extra special something about Abbie. Her favorite place to be, was in our laps. She was the consummate family dog, much like my Skippy was. She just gave love. Abbie’s eyes said love. Her bark said love. Her wagging tail said love. She mothered Gracie, and Gracie depended on her. 

 I think I have given all my dogs the best life I could. I hope I have. I wish dogs could speak. I know they talk to us in their own way of communication, especially through their eyes, but sometimes I needed them to actually talk to me. 

Abbie developed a mole on her face which the veterinarian initially told was nothing to worry about. It turned into a growth which was likely cancerous. She was almost 16 and we didn’t want to put her through surgery. It grew to the size of a ping pong ball and bled and oozed. Antibiotics did not help. We tended to it daily. I wish she could have told me what she wanted me to do. She certainly was slowing down but was still our loving, lap dog. Ultimately, as the week passed, she was in more discomfort and began having a tough time sleeping. The decision was gut-wrenching for me, and for us as a family. We gave Abbie the best life we could, all the love we had, and she gave it right back to us. 

The house is emptier now. Her bed is still in the corner of our bedroom. I think I will leave it there. 

Gracie is slowly adjusting. She refused to eat the first two few days and she keeps looking for “her mom.” I wish she could talk and tell me how she feels. We give her lots of extra love and attention. 

I believe the loss of a child is the most devastating loss any parent can experience. When Emilee lost her battle with anorexia, it was the darkest day of my life. How could I go on? With the love, support and strength of my wife and soulmate Linda, and our son Matthew, I endured. Having Emilee’s dog, Duncan, as part of our family, is part of Emilee that remains here with us. He is fifteen years old, has been blind for two years, and has always loved Abbie, Gracie, and us. He still loves to go on walks and smell all the delightful smells in the grass along the way. We continue to cherish this time with him. 

While we were writing our book, I had time to reflect and make peace with people I was angry with in our broken healthcare system. Through our podcasts, and speaking engagements, and The Emilee Connection, we are providing peer support, compassion, knowledge, and resources we wish were available for Emilee and for us as. We are making a difference in the lives of people with eating disorders and those that love them.

I picked up Abbie’s ashes today. She is home again with Gracie, Duncan, and us. Hopefully, this will help my grief subside a bit. I know it will take time.

Writing this blog has helped me with my grief. I have been blessed with wonderful memories of all the dogs that have been part of my life. I hope those of you who have not had pets and may not have been able to understand the attachment people have for them, may understand a little more now. They are family. They give so much love, and only ask for food, water, walks, and an occasional treat—okay —maybe lots of treats.

Thank you, Abbie, for being such a special family member. Our grief is deep because of the joy you gave us for so many years. We will remember you always.

Jack Mazur, Vice-President: The Emilee Connection