In this story, a mother’s cruelty destroyed her relationship with her own daughter, and it began with the family dog.
In 2013, I was a 21-year-old university student when I left home to focus on my studies. My family owned a dog, but Peanut was my dog, the one I chose from the PAWS shelter.
Leaving her behind was an emotional wretch, but I promised Peanut I would be home to see her as soon as possible. I know she understood me, and her wagging tail spun like a helicopter; her goofy, sweet smile saw me off.
It was an effort to get my mom to care for Peanut, but it backfired. My brother, who had just had a child, refused to let my mother visit and vice versa due to the disgusting amount of fleas and ticks.
When I came home six months later, my faithful friend and companion was suffering. She was an emaciated, flea-ridden, tick-infested mess from a healthy animal with a shiny coat. Her fur was falling out, and she smelled terrible.
Peanut recognised me immediately and mustered all her strength to stagger to her feet, wagging her tail and collapsing in my arms. I rushed Peanut to the vet, who was only barely able to save her life.
When I returned home, I confronted my mother. I could not, for my life, understand. Peanut had been a part of the family since I was seven. Yes, Peanut was 14, but that did not justify such neglect. I confronted my mother, who couldn’t care less.
“What, it’s just a dog. Who cares about that mutt?” My mother said dismissively.
I was furious, but I was also helpless. I could not bring her with me when I left, but I promised myself I could at least find her a better home. After asking 20 classmates, I finally found a friend who was willing to take her in. Joyful, I rushed home, though it was the middle of a school week, to bring her to a better life.
But upon arriving home, she was nowhere to be found. All traces of her were gone. Even photos of her. Confronting my mother again, she said coldly, “I got rid of it.”
Heartbroken, I turned around, walked back to my car, ignored whatever my mother said, and left. I didn’t find her at any animal shelter. The vets knew nothing. I started sleeping in my car and couch-surfing with friends. I never wanted to see my mother or that house ever again.
The guilt and rage would eat at me for years.
It’s been ten years, and my mother still has not told me what she did to Peanut. She acted like Peanut was never a part of the family and does not even acknowledge her existence.
I never found out what happened to Peanut. And nobody could muster up the courage to tell me what happened. It didn’t cross anyone’s mind that my mother would treat Peanut like yesterday’s garbage.
I was furious: My companion, my sister, my family, who had been there for me since I was 7, was gone. I often wondered what went through Peanut’s thoughts.
I hope that she didn’t understand, that she didn’t feel confused, lost, abandoned, neglected, and betrayed. Was she angry? Did she hate me in her final days?
I can thank my mother for teaching me what the red-tinged, blinding white heat of violent rage feels like. I kept it bottled for years and saw my mother as little as possible. The sight of her face still makes that rage boil to the surface.
Peanut was family. Put that aside: How do you mistreat another living being like that? I concluded that my mother is not human. And I cut as many ties as I could.
10 years later..
10 years after Peanut disappeared, I live with my boyfriend, and we have a cat together. Out of the blue, my mother called a family meeting saying she had some news to share with us. I grudgingly attended in person with my brothers and their wives.
She started that meeting by stating that the family home was too big and empty: She wanted at least one of her sons to move in and live with her so she could see some of her grandchildren.
To me, it was an obvious ploy: She was getting old and wanted someone to look after her. My partner and I exchanged a look: We’d heard the implied insult. Amusingly, my brothers refused, citing that her large house was not designed to raise a family.
Then, she tried to bully me into moving back home after her sons rejected her demand. I calmly refused her, stating that my partner and I have cats and wouldn’t want something bad to happen to our family.
Suddenly, my mother unleashed verbal diarrhoea of toxic gaslighting about how I was picking a “nasty, smelly flea bag” over her. Her diatribe continued, calling me stupid, childish, and ungrateful and saying that I owed her money for raising me all those years and that she somehow OWNED me. Like I was a piece of property.
She threatened to disinherit and disown and write me out of her will. My family watched in shocked silence as she stood over me, looking down her dagger-hooked nose, a triumphant smugness on her face. She thought my silence meant she’d brow-beaten me into submission.
I stood up and said, “No.”
That, however, didn’t spare me. There was a loud crack, and I opened my eyes. My mother had slapped me.
A loud crack, and next thing I know, I was waking up in the hospital. My mother has slapped me with all her might, and I had cracked my head on the way down. She got quite a few kicks in before my brothers and partner stopped her.
I had a major concussion, a fractured cheekbone with a long laceration, stitches on my lips, multiple bruises and a broken arm. My brother begged my partner and me not to press charges.
He promised to make sure she will never bother me anymore, in exchange. And also that she does not touch what is rightfully mine. They left without letting me get a word in. They didn’t even pay for my medical expenses. I had no choice. She is still my mother after all.
Furry or Not, Family is Family.
Since then, I have rescued another two cats and now have three that I love as my children. They love me in return and fill my heart.
My mother remains wealthy, living in her large empty house, where her children and grandchildren only visit occasionally. She has no power over any of us, yet she continues to make demands and throw tantrums like a spoiled child when she is told no.
I don’t care if she gives herself a heart attack. My mother tried to force her belief that pets are animals, not family.
When an animal enters your home and you give it love, affection, and care, it becomes a part of your family. You are their human, and their whole life revolves around you. I wear the scar on my cheek with the pride of any parent who fought for their child. Can’t say the same about my mother.
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