The veterinary assistant
was apparently running late, as Queenie and I were the only living occupants of
the parking lot, my automobile the only inanimate vehicle, (aren’t they all)
and the ‘Closed’ sign still hung inside the glass door.
Suddenly, a car slowed,
turned into the parking lot, and pulled into an adjoining space. Obviously, not
a clinic employee. I found myself looking into the troubled eyes of a
middle-aged woman. She smiled a thin smile, and I returned the gesture.
Normally, I would not have attempted a conversation, but since I happened to be
‘constitutionalizing’ my precious pooch, and in the proximity of the other
vehicle, I said,
“Hi there. I guess the
employees are running late. My little Queenie is having a tooth pulled and her
teeth cleaned today.”
My momentary friend
seemed pre-occupied with her thoughts, but the teary-eyed lady responded with,
“My little ‘Cooper’ is
being put to sleep this morning.”
Having lost three
previous pooches, her words struck me to the core. And having involuntarily
paused for effect, she continued.
“I’ve only had him
a few months, and he was due to be vaccinated for a couple of common diseases.
Unfortunately, before I could get him to the clinic, he came down with Parvo.
It turns out five other dogs on our street have gotten it, and have since died
of it.”
(and)
“Cooper weighed 55
pounds before he came down with the virus. He’s down to 28 pounds, and the vet
hasn’t been able to do anything to help him.”
Pt. 2
With this, I peered into
the half-opened back window of the automobile. I found myself looking into the
mournful eyes of what appeared to be a chocolate lab.
I recently published a
little volume entitled, “A Man’s Tribute to His Beloved Dogs,” and one primary
implication in the book is the innate intelligence of canines, and their
ability to “understand what’s going on.” Perhaps they comprehend much more
about the import of human speech than we possibly imagine. I believe the
precious pooch in the back seat knew what was about to befall him. He just knew.
I turned my gaze away
from the hopeless animal in the back of the old sedan, and without a word, I
extended my right hand towards the woman. And without so much as a word, she
returned the gesture. (Strange, I almost placed my hand on her forehead, as a
sort of blessing, and have done so in the past, but this inclination seemed a
bit too forward). At any rate, my anything, but premeditated behavior had
little or nothing to do with the usual connotation of a handshake; since we had
not ‘til then, (nor did we ever) introduce ourselves to one another.
The milk of human
compassion. There is just something about touch which conveys an underlying
emotion, and cognitive affirmation, like nothing else can do; whether a
handshake, a hug, or an arm around the shoulder.
I had ‘been there’ and
nothing conjures up the requisite understanding and subsequent response, more
so than having been there. And before each of us withdrew our hands to our own
persons, I verbally expressed my understanding.
“I can feel your pain.
My first pooch crossed the Rainbow Bridge sixty years ago.”
My newfound friend
seemed surprised. I like to think I look younger than my years. (I guess
staying away from mirrors helps perpetuate this myth).
Having done what I
could, and since about this time the clinic door was opened to me, I strode
through the portal with my twelve pound Shih Tzu in hand.
It has been several
years since that experience, but I will always remember those few fleeting
moments, and will be thankful I had the opportunity to comfort another human
being; who was facing one of the most difficult experiences any of us ever
will.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending
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