Life Before Dogs: An Opera Out on Route 1

I have no direct memories of my biological father, Neil. What I know of him comes from stories—pieces of the past shared by my mom, my grandfather, and other family members. Of all those stories, one stands out more than any other. It’s the defining moment of my life before dogs—the night my mother left Neil on the side of Route 1 in New Jersey on a sweltering summer night in 1971.

Life Before Dogs: My Biological Father

My parents were married for several years before I came along. In fact, shortly before my conception, my mom had decided to end the marriage after realizing that the charming, charismatic man she had married was also frequently a drunken disaster. In her words, I was the “product of their reconciliation.” She wanted a divorce, he wooed her back, and later that year, I was born.

I have no real recollection of my biological father. What I’ve pieced together from my mom, my grandfather, and some photographs paints a picture of a likable, handsome man with a magnetic personality. He could be the charismatic life of the party, effortlessly drawing people in—until he inevitably let them down.

As a headhunter in advertising, he worked in New York, straddling two different lives. Some days, he played the role of the ideal suburban husband, commuting from New Jersey to the city, embracing the white-picket-fence version of the American dream. Other days, he drowned his failures in alcohol, running up bills at bars and restaurants, relying on my grandfather to bail him out—literally and financially. I have no doubt that I was told the most sanitized version of these stories.

My mother once told me his mood was entirely dictated by work. If he was landing clients and making money, he was on top of the world. If things weren’t going well, he would disappear for days, and sooner or later, she would get a call to come pick him up from a police station.

Several years ago, I watched Mad Men, and I had an ah-ha moment. As I watched the character of Duck Phillips unravel—his drinking, his reckless decisions—it hit me that he probably wasn’t far off from my biological father. I wished I could call my mom and ask if that was what Neil had been like, but by then, it was too late as she had already passed away.

Spoiler alert to anyone planning to stream the show: in one episode, Duck Phillips abandons his Irish Setter in the middle of Manhattan, unable to stomach the way the dog looks at him with unconditional adoration. He opens the door and lets the dog go free because he can’t be the steady, reliable presence his kids—or even his dog—need. That moment hit me hard. In a way, I had been that Irish Setter. Neil signed away his parental rights as easily as if he were rehoming a dog.

It’s fascinating how media immortalizes men like him—charismatic, flawed, and self-destructive. Mad Men gives us glimpses into the advertising world of that era, where ambition and excess often led to collapse. Watching Duck Phillips unravel was unsettling. His downward spiral—the drinking, the recklessness, the act of abandonment—sounded all too familiar.

Picnics, Playpens, and Psychedelics: A Backyard BBQ Gone Wrong

One night in the summer of 1971, my mom, Neil, and I attended a backyard barbecue as a family. It was your typical American barbecue—burgers sizzling on the grill, hot dogs on paper plates, kids playing in the warm summer sunshine. As the evening wore on and the younger kids started to get sleepy, our parents tucked us into bed in the primary bedroom. As an infant, I was nestled in my baby carrier, unaware of the chaos brewing beyond the quiet of that room.

At some point, my mother was ready to go home. She was only a few months postpartum, with an infant to get to bed. My biological father, however, was not ready to leave.

As an “extroverted introvert” myself, I understand not wanting to linger at an afternoon barbecue long into the night. The term “extroverted introvert” refers to someone who enjoys socializing but reaches a point where their social battery runs out.

Give me a few hours at a party, and I’m perfectly content—socialized, satisfied, and ready to head home. I can absolutely empathize with my mom’s frustration as she tried to leave, only to meet resistance from my father.

Before I met my husband, I was in a relationship with someone who always wanted to stay out partying until the early hours of the morning. An “extroverted introvert” and the “life of the party” are not a harmonious mix as a couple, and I can imagine my mother, weary and frustrated, trying to talk Neil into leaving.

Not only was Mom ready to go, but she had also realized that Neil had indulged in much more than just drinking. She could tell he was on something and that it was more than just the joint she had seen passed around earlier in the day. It was, after all, 1971. Though she knew Neil had used drugs frequently, she herself had never even smoked pot.

Her annoyance at his altered state was quickly replaced by fear. If the police showed up, they wouldn’t care who had taken what—they’d arrest everyone at the party. That was all the justification she needed to get out of there fast.

She gathered me in my baby carrier, packed up my things, loaded us into the car, and started driving away—without Neil.

Or so she thought.

As she pulled out of the driveway, the passenger door suddenly swung open, and Neil jumped into the seat beside her. Mom kept driving, and Neil immediately started yelling. As she made her way down Route 1 toward our apartment in East Brunswick, his paranoia took hold. He screamed at her to drive faster—convinced that aliens were chasing them.

The panic escalated. He grabbed the steering wheel, jerking the car wildly, sending it swerving into the opposite lane. He pressed his foot onto the gas pedal, trying to take control. Then he slid toward her, pushing her against the driver’s side door. She fought to keep her grip on the wheel, terrified he would send them crashing.

Then she had a brainstorm.

“Okay, okay! I’ll let you drive. Just let me pull over, and we’ll swap,” she told him.

It was a desperate trick. She later told me they had swapped drivers like this before—one of them sliding over in the seat while the other ran around the back of the car. Neil, high and paranoid, took the bait. He flung open the door and stumbled toward the rear of the car, muttering about getting in before the aliens caught up.

Mom waited until he was just far enough away. Then she floored it.

Gravel sprayed up in his face as she sped off, watching him shrink in the rearview mirror, his stunned expression frozen in disbelief.

Later that night, the New Jersey State Police called her. They had picked Neil up on the side of Route 1, still screaming incoherently about aliens. They told her she needed to come get him.

She told them they could keep him.

In the end, my grandfather bailed him out—just as he had so many times before. A devoted “Girl Dad” who adored my mother, he had spent years covering Neil’s debts, smoothing over his messes. Yet he was also old-fashioned, and I wonder whether he ever urged her to forgive Neil, to try to fix what was clearly broken. Or had someone told her, even back then, that it was time to walk away?

I’ll never know. My grandmother was ahead of her time in many ways, and I cannot fathom her encouraging my mom to stay in a marriage filled with addiction and volatility. I do know that at some point, my mother realized that her own stable upbringing had left her unprepared for someone like Neil—his manipulations, his addictions, his chaos.

And so, she left him there—on the side of the road, beneath the glow of streetlights, abandoned to his own destruction.

Beneath That Giant Exxon Sign

If I were writing this as a movie, this scene would unfold late at night, the air thick with humidity, the highway deserted. Neil would stand, illuminated by the neon glow of a gas station just down the road. The soundtrack? Bruce Springsteen’s magnum opus Jungleland from the Born to Run album.

The first violin notes would begin as my mother pulled to the side of the road, letting him run around the back of the car. The piano would swell as she hit the gas, gravel spraying behind her, the car speeding away. In the rearview mirror, she would watch him grow smaller and smaller. The lyrics would kick in as Neil started to chase the car for a few steps before stopping—bent over, hands on his thighs, his head down in defeat.

“They’ll meet ‘neath that giant Exxon sign That brings this fair city light. Man, there’s an opera out on the Turnpike, There’s a ballet being fought out in the alley.”

Of course, in reality, Springsteen had not yet released (or maybe even written) this song. The lyrics don’t align with my own family drama, but I have always pictured a flickering neon Exxon sign illuminating the scene, simply because of Jungleland.

But here’s the bigger truth—Springsteen’s characters, much like the men of Mad Men, are romanticized versions of reality. Their flaws, their recklessness, their self-destruction are wrapped in poetry and nostalgia. In art, their chaos becomes something cinematic, something hauntingly beautiful.

Real life is different. There is no poetic sheen to nearly running your wife and infant daughter off the road. There is no tragic glamour in doing hard drugs at a family barbecue—not in 1971, not in 2025, and certainly not in a way that makes you hallucinate aliens chasing your car.

Life Before Dogs: From Chaos to Calm

Fortunately for both my mom and me, she divorced Neil when I was around four years old. I have not seen him in over 50 years, and he is not the man who helped raise me. He gave up his rights, my mother remarried, and my new “stepfather” legally adopted me. I only use that term to explain the adoption process—my dad became my one true father five decades ago.

With Dad came more than just stability. I gained two new brothers from his previous marriage—one older, one younger—as well as a new best friend: a black Labrador Retriever named Snoop.

If you’re wondering what this story has to do with dogs, it’s because there is a clear dividing line in my life—before dogs and after dogs. My early childhood was marked by chaotic moments, despite the stability my mother and maternal grandparents provided. But after my mom’s divorce and my adoption, the chaos was replaced by a steady rhythm of family life—weekends spent outdoors, family time, and, of course, Labrador Retrievers.

Logically, I know that stability came from getting Neil out of our lives—not from gaining a Labrador as my best friend. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that the contrast between pre-dog chaos and post-dog calm is part of why I’ve spent my life surrounded by dogs. Their constant, unwavering presence offers love without condition, without fear, and definitely without imaginary aliens chasing anyone down the highway.

On that long-ago night on Route 1, I was too young to understand how fiercely my mother loved me or how far she would go to protect me. But that lesson stayed with me, shaping the way I care for my dogs—always advocating for them, always ensuring they are safe. Just as my mother fought for me, I fight for the dogs in my care—because love, in its purest form, is steadfast, enduring, and never something you leave behind on the side of the road.