Children Know When We’re Lying

By Sondra Forsyth

One afternoon when I was 11 years old, my beloved dog didn’t come running to meet me. As an only child, I felt that Pepper was my furry brother. My parents had given him to me when I had the measles at the age of five. They hoped the beagle-mix puppy would make me feel better. He definitely did! Pepper, named for his feisty spirit, quickly became my constant companion whenever I wasn’t at school or ballet class. That’s why the fact that he didn’t greet me that day after school worried me.

I ran into the house and asked my mother where Pepper was. She averted her eyes and cleared her throat. Then she said, “We sent him to a farm. He’ll be happy there.” I knew she was lying. A week earlier, when one of the neighborhood boys was teasing me, Pepper had tried to protect me. He bit the boy’s arm. The boy had run wailing to his parents, who then came and confronted my parents about the “dangerous dog”. I had a sinking feeling right then that Pepper’s days were numbered.

I didn’t challenge my mother when she said they had sent Pepper to a farm, even though we lived in the city of Detroit and didn’t know anyone who had a farm. I already knew that Pepper had been “put down”. I went to my room, closed the door, and cried. Later, when my mother called me to come for dinner, she didn’t comment on my red eyes. After all, I could have been crying simply because I missed Pepper. She still had no idea I knew she had lied to me,

This incident stayed with me over the years, and when I had children of my own I vowed that I’d never lie to them. I knew my mother had been trying to protect me regarding what happened to Pepper, and I respected that. Even so, I wished she had been honest. Maybe we would have hugged and cried together. And I wouldn’t have had to be evasive when the neighborhood children asked about Pepper. I told them my parents said Pepper had been sent to a farm. They all knew it was a lie! The news about Pepper having bitten the boy had spread quickly. Kids are so much smarter than we acknowledge. They knew the truth, just as I did.

Now that I have grandchildren, I have renewed my vow never to lie to children. I don’t want to “shield them”, a phrase that my mother sometimes used. Better to be honest and help them confront life’s inevitable disappointments than to pretend I could keep them from knowing the truth.

After Pepper was gone, I eventually got another dog. Champ was a sweet cocker spaniel who quickly because my new furry brother. He had a calm temperament, and never bit anyone. I came home for Christmas one year and Champ wasn’t there. I asked my mother where he was. She averted her eyes and cleared her throat, but I interrupted her when she opened her moth to speak. “Mom,” I said, “tell me the truth this time.” A slow smile gradually lit up her face. Finally she said, “You always knew, didn’t you?” I nodded. Then she said, “We had to put Champ down. He was old and sick and suffering. We had him cremated and didn’t ask for the ashes.”

We hugged and cried together in a beautiful, cleansing moment. “I love you, Mom,” I whispered through my tears. “I love you, too,” she said.

She never lied to me again.

Sondra Forsyth is a Co-Editor-in-Chief of thirdAGE.com.