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My Pro-life Mother, Her Dog and their Abortion

Hypocrisy's a Bitch

By Rochelle HarperPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
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My Pro-life Mother, Her Dog and their Abortion
Photo by Heather Wilde on Unsplash

In light of the fall of Roe V. Wade, which we can only hope is a brief tangent into fascism, I am reminded of my upbringing. My family lived in the deep South, we were raised hard-right Republicans, and my mother in particular was viciously, unyieldingly pro-life. She raised us on all the anti-choice rhetoric. Taught my brothers and I that life begins at conception and that there is no greater sin than to kill what hasn't even been born. That women who got pregnant needed to take responsibility for their actions and bear the child to term. That pregnancy was a natural part of life, and complications rare. That the very worst and most unforgivable abortions were in the third-term, which ripped apart babies that were just weeks or even days from being born.

Today, I wanted to share a story about this Catholic, pro-life mother of mine, our family dog, and the abortion my mother scheduled when our dog got pregnant.

Tasha was my mom's dog, a purebred Hungarian Vizsla who my mom insisted would be a showdog and an eventual breeder. Breeding dogs was something of a side-hustle for my parents, and it was a lucrative one. I'm sure it brought in thousands of dollars, and only managed to get two family pets killed.

However, for Tasha, this never happened. In part because my parents had too many dogs and didn't really take care of any of them. In full disclosure, neither did my brothers or I - though at the time I was more concerned with surviving their abuse than I was the family pets.

It wasn't to say I ignored them, though. Animals were one of the very few joys that I had as a miserable teen living in that household. Whether it was our dogs or local pets, I felt a kind of kinship with the neglected animals. Sometimes, that meant saving the parasite-ridden kittens that our homeopathic neighbors insisted didn't need a vet because, "the mother's saliva will cure them," - but no amount of grooming would rid them of botflies. Sometimes it meant bending over our squirming, growling shih tzu with an electric razor and single-minded determination to remove as much matting as possible before the growling turned to biting. There's no blame on the dog here, the butchery that were my haircuts should live in infamy and was likely as painful to receive as they were to look at when done. There was definitely blood shed, and it was rarely mine.

You might think that this suffering was financial, maybe. Dog groomers are expensive and the shih tsu's fine coat clumps in dense mats if it so much as looks at a puddle. Let me assure you, money had nothing to do with their neglect.

My parents were firmly middle-class and living the American dream. With well-paying jobs in an industry that shall not be named, they lived comfortably in a mid-to-low tier gated community, had an on-and-off membership with the local country club, and money enough for small, personal luxuries. Like, for example, a lightly-used powder-blue mustang.

Still, they couldn't be bothered to have the dogs groomed. Their poverty wasn't one of money, but of empathy.

That is neither here not there, though. Our actual story begins when I was fifteen or sixteen. Our dogs, about four or five of them at this point, were kept in a small part of the backyard that was fenced off, but they craved sweet freedom and would charge and jump against the gate at every opportunity. I can't say I blame them terribly, I wouldn't want to be confined in that small, grass-less yard either. Especially not when the sum of human contact was when someone would dump an unrestrained amount of dry kibble into their uncovered bowl, which happened every couple of days. Eventually, the dogs got their way and the gate was so warped that the animals could squeeze out and escape.

While our neighborhood didn't have any leash law, we had recently lost another dog to a passing car, and even my parents weren't exactly eager to repeat the experience. The smaller dogs could be brought inside, but Tasha needed more room to run and move than our home could provide. My parent's solution, then, was to string up a clothesline between two trees and attach Tasha's leash to the line. It gave her room to move, without needing a regular walking regimen.

It was the laziest solution available, which made it the choice they picked.

Tasha was, at this point, four-ish years old and unspayed, in a neighborhood with multiple male dogs just wandering around. My parents apparently either didn't think about these factors or just didn't care, because eventually the extremely predictable occurred and Tasha got pregnant.

I first noticed Tasha was pregnant when watching her play, huffing back and forth along the clothesline with less energy than usual. A hunting dog by breed, she looked more tired than usual and for the first time I noticed that her usually lean frame seemed downright round. Somehow, her changing form had managed to escape notice, but now that I looked it was clear she wasn't just overindulging on kibble. Her body was showing signs that made it perfectly clear that puppies weren't far behind.

Every day, I would check on Tasha to see if today was the day we'd have puppies. Surely she couldn't be far from delivery, and the promise of loving, squirming new lives was a rare distraction from the misery of that home.

At some point, I mentioned to mom about the puppies, expecting some excitement in return. Mom loved puppies, in her own strange way, and it was one of the very few things we truly agreed on. To my surprise, her expression twisted hatefully and she snapped back that there were no puppies. Tasha, she hissed, was not pregnant.

Anger wasn't anything new from mom. I knew her anger all too well, in fact. I have scars from her anger, both physical and emotional. But anger over puppies? That I didn't understand. I couldn't understand.

The truth came out not long after. The reason mom kept denying Tasha was pregnant was because she never planned to let Tasha have the puppies. Mom scheduled a procedure to abort the litter and spay Tasha in the process, and I suppose she just hoped no one would notice.

At the time, I was (shamefully) as pro-life as my mom. I grew up feeding on her hate of abortions and was livid when I learned she was going to "kill" a liter of puppies right before they were due to be born. This time, it was my turn to be angry.

I threw every line of rhetoric mom had taught me back at her. That it was no different than killing newborn puppies. That abortion in all its forms should be illegal. That abortion was a sin. That Tasha would be happier as a mother dog. That we could just care for the puppies when they were born.

Mom snapped back that they never wanted Tasha to get pregnant, not by some stray. That the pregnancy was likely with a bigger dog and Tasha might not survive a natural birth. That she couldn't just drop thousands of dollars on a c-section. That they couldn't sell the puppies, and didn't even know if they could give them away.

That she had NO CHOICE.

At the time, I couldn't understand her. She taught me that everyone was responsible for their own choices. Women chose to have sex, and so consented to the possibility of pregnancy. She taught me that even in the "very rare" cases where a woman conceives after rape, that the baby shouldn't be punished. It's just a few months anyway, and the baby can be given away to someone who will love and care for it.

Now here she was saying that her decision to leave her unspayed dog in the open didn't matter. She deserves a second choice, because she didn't like the consequences of the first.

Years later, I accept decision. I don't agree with it, but I understand it. She had a right to decide what medical procedure was best for a living being that was in her care. While it may not have been the choice I would have made, it was her right.

A right that now women around America will no longer have.

Unlike Tasha, who was saved from a pregnancy that could have killed her, and my parents who didn't have to raise mixed-breed puppies they couldn't sell, these women will be forced to endure unwanted, dangerous, and expensive pregnancies. The reasoning that my Catholic, pro-life mother used to justify her choice will be denied to these women.

It's been two decades since Mom made her choice to abort her dog's puppies, and she remains passionately and completely pro-life. I am sure that she celebrated the SCOTUS ruling with a joy she reserves for moments of particular cruelty.

She will celebrate every person forced to carry a child they can't care for. Every person who loses their job because of an unplanned pregnancy. Every toxic pregnancy that slowly kills its unwilling host, as doctors debate if they'll go to jail for administering the only treatment available - abortion. Every child forced to carry their rapist's baby while still just a baby themselves. And while she toasts a victory for Christian extremism, all I can think is that she has their blood on her hands.

I wish I could say I learned a lesson that day, but it took me years to come to grips with the fact that my mother's strongly held beliefs just don't matter when she's the one held accountable from her irresponsible decisions.

Ain't Hypocrisy a Bitch?

Taboo
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About the Creator

Rochelle Harper

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

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  • Vytas Stoskusabout a year ago

    Catholicism more than many religions really does a number on its young victims who then never manage to escape its firm grip. It helps explain how the simpleminded masses confined mentally by religiosity can then be taken over by a con buffoon like Trumpty Dumpty.

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