GOING HOME

As I write these words, my little Queenie has just 30 hours to live and move and breathe on this good earth. Our precious little Shih Tzu came to us seven years ago, and she has, as you might imagine, been such an integral member of our family.

In the past year, our 18 year old pooch has developed a cataract in one eye, and is quickly losing the sight in the other. Bad enough that she is close to being blind, but over the past few months Queenie has displayed significant symptoms of Canine Cognitive Disorder, or in human terms, Dementia.

My brother in law and sister in law have volunteered to take her to the veterinarian for me to, well, you know. They did this same thing once before when our dear Lucy was close to departing the proverbial premises.

A few years ago my Queenie was scheduled for her annual checkup,  and I made an appointment with my local vet to examine her. And on a given day I put her in the car, and we drove the five miles which lay between my house and the clinic.

And as I pulled into the empty clinic parking lot, and parked in front of the building, I compared the sign in the window and the time on my watch, and realized neither the vet, nor his staff had arrived for the day. At least, I thought, we will be the first in line.

However, the passage of sixty seconds challenged my persuasion since now a late model sedan pulled in beside my car. Glancing to my right, I noticed a young lady of perhaps thirty, and a somewhat scrawny, non-descript brown hound in the seat beside her.

And in the course of a few moments, I noticed a tear roll down her left cheek, and then it seemed she stifled a sob. Well, if you even remotely know me, I am incapable of watching another human being (or animal, for that matter) suffer, and not do something about it.

Pt. 2

Leaving Queenie in the passenger seat, I opened my car door, walked around the automobile, and now stood next to the young lady’s half open window.

Brushing away her tears, the surprised stranger looked up and me, and, no doubt, wondered if I had an ulterior motive.

I spoke first.

“I don’t mean to startle you, Miss, but I noticed you were upset, and wondered if I could help in some way.”

To which the young lady replied,

“Oh, hi. My little Webster is very sick. He developed Parvo and I brought him here, and Dr. Myers gave him antibiotics. However, whatever he prescribed for him didn’t touch the Parvo. He has only gotten sicker, and he has lost a lot of weight. The doctor told me that there is nothing more he can do for him. He is going to euthanize Webster today.”

I could not help myself. As my own eyes welled up with tears, I took the liberty of placing my hand on the young lady’s shoulder. I did not remove it immediately, but offered my condolences.

“I am SO very sorry. God bless you and your dear Webster.”

“Margaret” turned her tear-stained face towards me now, and uttered a few more words.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

And with this, I nodded, stepped away from her car door, and got back into the driver’s side of my own car.

Afterward

I have often thought about that young lady, and how difficult it must have been to watch her precious pooch suffer, and not be able to do anything about it. And I have reflected on how hard it must have been to watch her dear Webster close his eyes for the last time.

There is a scene in the movie, “Marley & Me” in which the latter takes the former to the veterinarian, and lingers beside him as the doctor administers the lethal cocktail of drugs. And having watched the simulated euthanization, I swore to myself that I would, at all costs, avoid a room like that throughout the course of my natural life.

You may think it strange, but as I “put pen to paper” in the wee hours of this morning, somehow my resolve has been strengthened to do what I swore I would never do. They say the more you familiarize yourself with something, the less fearful the proposition becomes.

I don’t know if it is so much the foregoing possibility, or whether that young lady to whom I have previously alluded has loaned me a bit of her courage. Be that as it may, I think I am ready to do what I had decided I would never do.

It just isn’t about me. It is about that precious little member of our family who stands on the threshold of eternity. I think it is the least I can do for her. After all, if it were my homegoing, I have no doubt she would be there for me.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending