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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
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