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With These Hands
With my bare hands, I finished mounding the dirt over Pepsi's grave. Then I sat
back, reflecting on the past and absorbing all that had happened. As I stared
at my dirt-stained hands, tears instantly welled in my eyes. These were the
same hands that, as a veterinarian, had pulled Pepsi, a little miniature
schnauzer, wiggling from his mother. Born the runt and only half-alive, I had
literally breathed life into the dog that was destined to become my father's
closest friend on earth. I didn't know then just how close. Pepsi was my gift
to Dad. My father always had big dogs on our farm in
southern Idaho, but instantly, Pepsi and Dad formed an inseparable bond. For
ten years, they shared the same food, the same chair, the same bed, the same
everything. Wherever Dad was, Pepsi was. In town, on the farm or on the
run...they were always side-by-side. My mom accepted that Dad and the little
dog had a marriage of sorts.
Now Pepsi was gone. And less than three months earlier, we had buried my dad.
Dad had been depressed for a number of years. And one afternoon, just days
after his eightieth birthday, Dad decided to take his own life in the basement
of our old farmhouse. We were all shocked and devastated. Family and friends
gathered at the house that evening to comfort my mother and me. Later, after
the police and all the others had left, I finally noticed Pepsi's frantic
barking and let him into the house. I realized then that the little dog had
been barking for hours. He had been the only one home that day when Dad decided
to end his life. Like a lightning bolt, Pepsi immediately ran down to the
basement. Earlier that evening, I had promised myself that I would never go
back into that basement again. It was just too painful. But now, filled with
fear and dread, I found myself heading down the basement stairs in hot pursuit
of Pepsi. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I found Pepsi standing rigid
as a statue, staring at the spot where Dad had lain dying just hours before. He
was trembling and agitated. I picked him up gently and started back up the
stairs. Once we reached the top, Pepsi went from rigid to limp in my arms and
emitted an anguished moan. I placed him tenderly in Dad's bed, and he
immediately closed his eyes and went to sleep. When I told my mom what had
happened, she was amazed. In the ten years Pepsi had lived in that house, the
little dog had never once been in the basement. Mom reminded me that Pepsi was
scared to death of stairs and always had to be carried up even the lowest and
broadest of steps. Why, then, had Pepsi charged down those narrow, steep
basement steps? Had Dad cried out for help earlier that day? Had he called
good-bye to his beloved
companion? Or had Pepsi simply sensed that Dad was in trouble? What had called
out to him so strongly that Pepsi was compelled to go down to the basement,
despite his fears? The next morning when Pepsi awoke, he searched for my
father. Distraught, the little dog continued looking for Dad for weeks.
Pepsi never recovered
from my father's death. He became withdrawn and progressively weaker. Dozens of
tests and a second opinion confirmed the diagnosis I knew to be true; Pepsi was
dying of a broken heart. Now, despite my years of training, I felt helpless to
prevent the death of my father's cherished dog. Sitting by Pepsi's freshly
mounded grave, suddenly things became clear. Over the years, I'd marveled at
the acute senses dogs possess. Their hearing, sight and smell are all superior
to humans. Sadly, their life span is short in comparison, and I had counseled
and comforted thousands of people grieving over the loss of their adored pets.
Never before, though, had I considered how it was for pets to say good-bye to
their human companions. Having watched Pepsi's unflagging devotion to Dad and
the dog's rapid decline after Dad's death, I realized that our pets' sense of
loss was at least equal to our own. I am grateful for the love Pepsi lavished
on my father. And for his gift to me; a deeper compassion and understanding of
pets, which has made me a better veterinarian. Pepsi's search for Dad is over
now; together again, my father and his loyal little dog have finally found
peace.
By Marty Becker, D.V.M. Reprinted by permission of Marty Becker, D.V.M. ©
1998, from Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen, Marty Becker, D.V.M. and Carol Kline. |
