Animal Movies Are My Kryptonite

I have a love/hate relationship with sad entertainment. And by that, I mean I actively avoid it… while also judging all media by whether or not it makes me cry. It’s a deeply flawed system, I admit—but here we are.

It all started with Where the Red Fern Grows. I was just a kid when I first saw the movie, and it wrecked me. I couldn’t stop thinking about that boy, those dogs, and the ending—when the family moves away and sees the mythical red fern growing between the graves. I mean, come on. That fern wasn’t just a plant; it was a divine mic drop. A sign that love, loyalty, and canine sacrifice still mattered in this cold, cruel world.

Ever since that formative trauma, I’ve judged all books and movies by what I call the Crying Yardstick. The highest honor? Tears. Real, salty, rolling-down-my-cheeks tears. A good story doesn’t need to be a sob-fest, but if I don’t at least well up… it’s a hard pass. Think The Notebook, or pretty much anything by Nicholas Sparks. Bonus points if there’s rain or a goodbye scene.

Now, this doesn’t mean I like animal movies. Quite the opposite. I refuse to watch them. Dogs, bears, horses—it’s a firm no from me. The last bear movie I accidentally watched was during indoor recess with my students. I was just trying to eat my sandwich in peace when a PBS-style documentary on polar bears came on. Cute, right? Until the narrator explained how climate change was affecting the bears’ ability to hunt, and the mama bear started wandering the Arctic with her cubs. Then one morning, the little boy cub didn’t get up. He was just a snow lump. The mom and sister trudged off without him. And I? I have thought about that scene every single week since. Possibly every day.

And then there was The Shack—a Jesus movie. I’d read the book and loved it, so I went with Michelle, Judy, and Mom to see it in theaters. I started crying immediately and sobbed through the entire movie. Not just quiet, polite tears either. Full-on, embarrassing, “Is-she-okay?” kind of sobs. I loved the message, the perspective on grief and healing—but wow. I was emotionally leveled. I think I left the theater spiritually evolved and slightly dehydrated.

Yes, I watched Marley and Me. And yes, I cried. Of course I cried. I knew I’d cry. Why do I do this to myself? Especially with animal stories. I know I’m going to end up emotionally gutted, yet I still press play like a woman with something to prove. Meanwhile, my brain holds on to these animal trauma scenes like they’re sacred texts. Years later, I still mourn that polar bear cub like a distant relative.

So no, my life doesn’t need to be falling apart for me to feel sad. I can borrow someone else’s sadness just fine, thank you very much. Preferably fictional. Definitely furry. And ideally, with a crying score of 10/10.

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