Pathetic

What sells best nowadays in America is pathetic, pathological grief. A whiny, girly man, sissified by his emotions and unable to put sadness into its proper perspective writes a memoir about a beloved dog, Sprite. Yet Sprite was part of Mark Levin’s life for less than 2 years. How could his literary pap have become a New York Times best seller? What is America coming to when a nationally syndicated radio talk show host flaunts his pathological grief? And some Americans applaud? Ever since the death of Princess Diana this condition has increased in prevalence - unabated, encouraged and dangerous to the point of becoming recreational pastime. Grief, anthropomorphically based without a sense of proportion or true purpose in life, is pathetic. It radiates, hot and unremitting from a man who can’t hold it together. Mark would trade his "rating and career" to keep his dog. Excuse me, inevitably, all old dogs ( and people ) die. His words are frightening in their sincerity, coming, unfortunately, from the depths of a religion of pathological grief. Check out some of his chosen words: "Agony, torturous, overwhelming pain, terrible, killing me, depressed, panicked, emotional wreck, sinking and sinking, unbearable, bleeds, struggling. The adjectival and verbal list is endless.

Mark is a modern, professional Yuppie who can’t bury a dead dog because of community regulations so ashes are on order. He vacations often, once to Nassau for relief. He has inherited from his mother, a maudlin anthropomorphism. She provided intravenous injections to her beloved dog for one year. He is so self-important that his vet makes a house call to put his dog to sleep. He is a spoiled elitist, privileged to employ underlings from Brazil to help him around his newly constructed, suburban home. Without a plethora of funds to finance unrestricted medical care, Mr. Levin’s connections with his dogs would have been nil.

How shall his dog Sprite have a legacy? By being called Sprite Levin. By an owner being his "guardian angel." By a man regretting his failure to catch and diagnose the dog’s brain tumor earlier. By Mark talking to the tree under which he buried the pet’s ashes, asking Sprite, "How ya doing?" each time he passes or touching the leaves and branches. By Mark holding a sweatshirt against his face that the dog slept upon and inhaling. By an exaggeration of tears.
Mark wallows in sentimentality. If his pathos of Mark Levin were in itself not so hysterical, my laughter would fill the spaces between the lines. Sadness for the losses of my beloved pets raised its lonely head as I read his book, but for me, perspective usually triumphed. Mark prolongs his grief by interjecting into his memoir, sympathetic tales and expressions of loss and love from readers, listeners, friends and relatives.

A telling footnote is Mr. Levin’s "contempt for inhumanity and selfishness" represented by folks who rid themselves of a pet for whatever financial or personal reasons. He hates any person who cannot live up to his standards of love and care. A short two months after Sprite’s passing (not death), however, Mark and his wife adopt an 11 yr old blind dog who needs major veterinary services and surgeries, that, luckily, he can afford. If Americans have literally gone to the dogs, and dogs are men’s best friends, creatures made in the image and likeness of God, willingly patter on on 4 paws. Rational control of sadness still does not distinguish them from their friends.