Your Childhood Trauma: Your dog, Fido, dies.
Your Childhood Trauma According to Shakespeare: Alas, poor Fido! I knew him, Mother, a canine of infinite slobber, of most excellent fetch.
Your Childhood Trauma According to Ayn Rand: WHO IS FIDO? Fido is gone. Fido is dust. You steel your jaw, cutting a broad, elegant figure of strength in the play-yard. It is good, even preferable, that Fido is dead, for you and the human race. Now the world of nature may feast on his flesh, and you can pursue the rest of your childhood, no longer fettered by Comrade Fido’s need. Now you can play fetch by yourself, and you can go on playing fetch by yourself. This is true childhood; unbridled and pure, with no master and no subservience. Except when it comes to Mom and Dad. There is that. But that will change.
Your Childhood Trauma According to F. Scott Fitzgerald: Fido may well be gone, but his companionship, his roguish air, and that feeling of his warm fur against your fingers will not soon be forgotten. These memories dwell safely in the lockbox of time that no one can pull from you, no matter how hard they try (especially women, for some reason). Fido’s bark reverberates through your life still. Every night you stare into the scarred surface of his green squeaky toy. So you play on, sneakers against the asphalt…
Your Childhood Trauma According to JD Salinger: All the other dogs were phonies, but not Fido. Damn it all to hell, you loved that stupid dog. Sometimes you think about him at night; that lousy, drooling face. You don’t even know what it means, except that you miss him. But you shouldn’t have told anyone that.
Your Childhood Trauma According to Ernest Hemingway: Your pop ran over Fido in the street. Crying, you moved to see if the dog still breathed. It did. There was blood. Your father handed you the family shotgun. “Be a man,” he said. You shot Fido dead.