Lap Dog - A True Story
After choking down a raspberry
danish, the veterinarian was planning to warm up the car a bit,
when the emergency call came in. It was a sad, but not uncommon
case, for people to stumble across discarded and unwanted litters
of pets, and it usually fell to the local vet to deal with their
disposal in a more humane manner. The vet sighed deeply, scraped
the frost off his windshield, and headed for the clinic.
The woman was agitated, and fretted mournfully, in the exam room.
Upon opening the filthy cardboard box she'd found dumped alongside
the irrigation ditch, the vet could understand why. Inside were
four tiny puppies, three already dead from hypothermia and dehydration,
and the fourth one close to death, barely moving, and whimpering
piteously. What surprised the vet was that these were not newborns,
as expected, but were healthy and well-fed eight-week puppies,
obviously purebred, either schnauzers or some other wire-haired
breed. Why would a breeder dispose of such nice specimens? Ah
well, he would never know. He had, over the years and out of necessity,
become sanguine in his opinion and observations of the human/dog
interaction, from heroic and selfless love and devotion to vile
mistreatment to pathological neglect.
He assured the woman, now chatting fitfully and tearfully despondent,
that he would put the remaining puppy out of its misery right
away. But, no, that's not what she wanted. Suddenly assuming the
intense and determined fortitude of a Marine drill instructor,
the woman gave the vet his orders: Do everything possible to save
that puppy.
It was meant to live, she said, or it would not have survived
through that horrid, chilled evening, trapped in a box, surrounded
by death, but refusing to give up hope. It would have been so
easy, she continued, to not notice the apparent trash, lying alongside
the rutted, dusty, county road. She could have been looking the
other way, and not seen it, or, seeing it, not recovering the
box, as common sense would dictate.
Besides, she added, the woman and her husband hadn't had a dog
in years, and contented themselves with goldfish, which are not
known for their boisterous displays of affection, amusing tricks,
nor retrieving frisbees in midair. So, she told the vet, make
the effort. She'd pay cash. The vet was not optimistic, as the
puppy was already in extremis, but, what the heck. She had a good
heart, and he was not in the business of breaking them.
Of course, the puppy lived (there's
no point to a 'dead dog' story, now is there?). It thrived deliriously.
The woman and her husband, retired farmers, still retained a few
acres to be explored, run on, grass to roll in, grasshoppers to
chase, leaves to chew, bones to hide, toys to be spread like treasure,
and squirrels to vanquish. And puppy was also a valiant sentry,
defending the family from gruesome monsters, such as Pizza Guy
and the random meter reader.
Puppy became Doggy, full grown and robust, a delight to everyone,
especially to the vet, who would marvel at Doggy's well-being,
in spite of such dastardly origins. Doggy did not return the vet's
admiration, being poked and prodded and vaccinated on a woefully
regular basis, but instead loved the trips into town, securely
strapped in, perched nobly on the car seat next to the humans,
alert to any threat such as strange canines, evil cosmic overlords
on bicycles, flood, fire, pestilence, boils, or alien abductions.
Doggy was relentless, and a source of endless fun, boundless energy.
Years passed and, as is normal with all living beings, they begin
to slow down. Doggy still ran and rolled and played, but with
perhaps not quite former enthusiasm and vigor. Doggy spent most
days now laying in the sun, engaging in scheduled patrols of the
empire, and gnawing on prepared cowhide bones with mindless devotion.
But, the best part, the most sought-after blessing, was napping
peacefully in an available lap, cuddled, petted, talked to, either
swaying in the porch swing or seated in front of the television,
and all was well with the universe, in that lap.
More years blissfully stroll by, and suddenly, without warning,
the woman passed away. Her husband and Doggy were inconsolable,
numb. For them, life dimmed and muted. The garden withered, meals
came less often, not quite as hearty, but that was ok. The man
and Doggy still had each other, there was still a lap to curl
in, still a porch swing and a television that offered Doggy and
the man endless hours of cherished companionship, which was what
mattered. Eventually, Doggy became content, though remained inexplicably
watchful, at times, for the departed lady.
As sometimes happens, with no explanation nor known reason, the
man shrunk, dwindled, and he, too, passed away, in spite of the
gallant efforts and loving ministrations of his loyal and fearless
friend. Doggy was frantic, confused and, once again, alone and
abandoned in the world.
The man's daughter flew in from
out of town to make the funeral arrangements and, a few days later,
drove Doggy to the vet. It was another sad, but common, event,
thought the vet, as the daughter related her story: She didn't
want the dog, it was obviously depressed, aged, and could not
possibly find former happiness. The vet was asked to humanely
dispose of the dog, the most logical option.
Grudgingly, but rationally, the vet had to agree. Doggy had triumphed
against such brutal odds in the beginning, and had brought so
much subsequent joy. It seemed a shame to end its life. But, conversely,
Doggy had lived a good ten years, giving and receiving affection.
It was perhaps a sentimental and foolish love, but true love nonetheless.
The vet gave his assurances to the daughter, bid her goodbye,
and placed the limp and bewildered dog gently within a laboratory
cage, making note to dispose of it later that evening, after clinic
hours.
It was a hellish day for the vet, very busy. Whole populations
of pets flowed in and out the door, presenting a variety of ills
to be cured, clients to be pacified, surgeries and procedures
performed, important lives to be saved. The vet was beat, worn
out, and tiredly dragged himself home that night, forgetting about
Doggy, who languished, grievously inert and mourning in a dark,
silent, and antiseptic cage.
A veterinary student arrived early the next morning, made her
rounds, and reminded the vet of his duty to euthanize the huddled
mass of despair, lying feebly in the back cage. The vet quickly
cursed himself. It was not his nature to allow living things in
his custody to suffer, but before he could undertake the obligation,
another emergency flew, frenzied, into the clinic, begging for
aid, and the vet left Doggy's fate to the student, as the method
of dispatch was uncomplicated and quick. He had more immediate
concerns in the exam room.
The man was retired, a widower, and hysterical. His dog! His dog
was running, was playing, and just dropped! His dog! Save the
dog! It took mere moments for the vet to determine that the dog
had expired, probably from an aneurism or cerebral hemorrhage.
It was not uncommon in elderly dogs. No! No! cried the man, not
my dog, oh, my friend. All we had was each other, he said, sobering
and eventually resigned. They would ride, he said, in the car,
and take walks in the country. Most of the time, though, they
would sit and gaze out the window, or watch television, the dog's
warm and soothing presence coiled in his lap. Now gone, so sad,
so unfair. The man was alone and abandoned, forevermore.
!!Inspiration!! Perfection, thought the vet. Standing before him
was a forsaken man possessing an uninhabited lap, and in the back
was a dog desperately in need of one. It was a match made in doggie
heaven, and here on earth, too, for that matter. The vet swiftly
dashed back to the lab and halted the injection just in time.
And Doggy lived happily for another ten years.