When the phone rang at 4:40 am New
Year’s morning, I must admit to not feeling very festive. Although I’m not a
big “celebrator,” I was hoping for more than four hours of sleep. But when I
heard it was one of Kirby’s moms who called, and he had taken a turn for the
worse, my grumblings ceased. You see, I feel a certain bond with his moms. A
few years ago, they provided me with what I consider my best column, as well as
one of the most memorable “human” moments of my life.
The column, “Bette’s Family Values”,
was about the death of their old Cocker Spaniel from pancreatic cancer, a
disease as nasty for pets as it is for us. Bette’s column wasn’t only about
her, however. It also dealt with a window sticker on the back of their Jeep
that read; “Hate is not a family value.”
It wasn’t so much the sticker that
impressed me, but the courage it took to display it. Society’s views were much
different in the spring of 2006 than they are now, and from the faded,
moth-eaten appearance of the sticker, it had been there for a good long time.
Whenever I write a column and use the real names of pets or people, I
always have the humans involved read it before publication to make sure they
are comfortable with the content. In this case I wasn’t just asking permission
to tell a nice tale, I was seeking absolute verification for a relationship I
alluded to but wasn’t convinced even existed.
I worried for days over how to approach the ladies,
and then as if by fate, luck, or divine intervention, I spotted Joyce standing
behind our reception counter on the Saturday morning before the column’s
Tuesday deadline. I quickly printed a copy of their story, and asked her to
follow me down the hallway to our surgery room. She seemed a little
apprehensive, and I don’t blame her. It was a rather odd request.
Once inside, I closed the door, took
a deep breath, and began my one line of questioning. “Are you and Joyce…”
She stopped me. “I am Joyce.”
My head dropped in defeat and
embarrassment, and with what air was left I whispered, “I know that.”
After a couple more deep breaths, I
continued with my eloquent question. “So are you and Patrice cousins or
sisters- in- law or something?”
I wish I could adequately describe
the look she gave me but I can’t. Let me just say it was penetrating. The look
was followed by a two word response and a follow-up question of her own. “We’re partners…Why?”
“Oh,
thank God!” I exclaimed. “Here read this.” In my excitement, I nearly threw the papers at
her. Poor Joyce, I don’t think she had ever seen someone so happy she had a
partner before.
As she read the column in front of
me, her face softened, and her eyes filled with tears. When she finished, she
gave me a really big hug, the warmth of which I can still feel today.
A few weeks after Bette’s death,
Joyce and Patrice adopted a puppy and named him Kirby. The first time I met
him, I thought to myself: “Puppy, you just won the dog lottery!” Kirby had a
great life with the ladies and the rest of their pet family, much of it spent
camping, hiking, and boating at Grand Lake and beyond.
Last fall his health began to
decline. Although we were never able to make a definitive diagnosis, Kirby
probably had some type of cancer. Whatever the cause, it culminated in that
phone call New Year’s morning.
When my wife, Bonnie, went to draw
up the euthanasia solution, Patrice turned to me and asked, “Did you know Kirby
was a mistake?”
I had forgotten that part of his story. The
fuzzy-faced Golden Retriever puppy the ladies purchased grew up to be a
handsome Goldendoodle. But that didn’t matter to his new moms. His pedigree was his only flaw.
In the confines of the small exam
room, as Joyce and Patrice said good-bye to their beloved pet, I had a
flashback to Bette’s passing, and what I learned then from the ladies about
what it meant to be a family. It became clear to me that a life capable of
giving and accepting love can never be a mistake- not Kirby, not anybody.
By Dr. John Jones
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