| fido-friend.mp3 |
When my family moved from Los Angeles to a small town in Oregon – and by small I mean fewer than 9,000 people at the time – one of the things on my mind was the way relocation would affect our dog. He was always running off in LA. But we had a fenced yard. So the adventure of galivanting off into other neighborhoods was pretty much confined to those times when someone left the gate open. In contrast, our new home was an old farmhouse – with no enclosure at all.
So I was shocked to see that our little terrier never ventured from our lawn. At first, we counted ourselves lucky. It seemed that our canine had finally figured out that there is no place like home. Soon, though, our beloved little mutt seemed confused about even finding his way to the door from only a few steps away. Everything seemed to confound him.
It was time for a trip to the local vet, a man everyone told us had bite marks on his hands and a heart of gold. His name was Dr. Lindsay, and he also was known as a man of few words.
Very few words. As I recall, he uttered only three: “Likely … brain … tumor.” Stunned, I asked him if he was actually the Dr. Lindsay with whom I had made an appointment, because this is not the way I expected a golden-hearted veterinarian to speak. “Yes, I am friend,” he said, kindly.
Well, this was reassuring, because our new friend, Dr. Lindsay, was going to have the extraordinary and excruciating duty of watching us break down into spasms of grief as we determined that he was the guy to help us take our dog to his last breath. This he did compassionately, after my husband gave our little pooch a last treat and a final tummy rub.
And it was Friend Lindsay to whom I turned when our teenage daughter – bereft at this loss – was allowed to adopt another dog from an animal shelter where no one seemed to know the breed. Tiny, but with long and unkempt hair, the little male dog looked like the business end of a mop. I told my daughter I wasn’t even sure he was a dog – we took him, anyway. We named him Fido, mostly because I thought that would be funny.
And then, tragically, Fido seemed to be suffering the same malady as our former dog. He lay limp when bathed. He didn’t seem to know where he was. When someone came to the door, he gazed up from the sofa, put his down, and never barked. He looked at food warily before eating. It was time for another sad trip to Friend Lindsay.
With the same economy of the language, Dr. Lindsay, looked over Fido, and, in his taciturn way said: “This dog is traumatized.” I felt relief flood over me. He said “trauma” not “tumor’! OK, so we had Fido’s condition, now what was there to do about it. Like a kid begging to trade a chore for a cookie, I told Dr. Lindsay I would do anything, anything at all, just so we could make Fido better. Could I drag him on walks? Could I feed him ice cream? What drugs could help?
“Well, there is really nothing to do,” Dr. Lindsay said. “Except what you are already doing.”
What? This supposedly was Friend Lindsay! What kind of veterinary friend says to do nothing! And why does he call himself “friend,” anyway? Was this some religious thing? Who does that?
As soon as I left the veterinary clinic, I called my husband. “Dr. Lindsay told us to do NOTHING!” I said. “We have a traumatized dog and he told me to do nothing! What kind of vet is he anyway, and I am not calling him friend!”
There was a period of silence. “I think we should do nothing,” by husband said. “Dr. Lindsay is highly regarded here, and, to be honest, I myself am a fan.”
And so, we did nothing. And our dog slept and ate the hours away. And then he stood still for a trim, and we noticed how he looked up at us without objection as we cut off his hair. And how he went to the window to watch as we came and went. And how my daughter could not go anywhere without hearing the click of canine toenails behind her on our wooden floor. The tail wagging began without us even realizing it, until one day I noticed it stopped – when the mail carrier came to our day. Fido never barked, but he stood at attention, regarding the porch intruder with the wariness he once reserved for his bowl of food. How we grew to love this little dog.
It was Dr. Lindsay who told us the breed, even before the grooming had taken place. We had a cockapoo. And it was Dr. Lindsay who didn’t seem surprised at all when our dog bit him while he dispatched vaccinations. And it was Dr. Lindsay who never minded that Fido would take one look at him and urinate copiously on the floor. And it was Dr. Lindsay who brought us the news that we had a healthy, 5-year-old dog who seemed like a great little member of his species.
So … I told my husband that Fido truly had found a friend in Dr. Lindsay, after all. “I don’t know why he called himself ‘Friend’ the first time I met him, but he really and truly is,” I said.
My husband looked at me. “I don’t think it’s likely he actually said ‘friend’,” my husband answered. “Did you know his first name is Ken?” No, I had not.
So what if that first time I met him, in his taciturn way, he said “I am Ken” rather than “friend.” He is both things now. And Fido got a friend, and so did we, and once in a while I say a little thanks for the fact that all animals going through the old door of that clinic are sure to have one, too.
So I was shocked to see that our little terrier never ventured from our lawn. At first, we counted ourselves lucky. It seemed that our canine had finally figured out that there is no place like home. Soon, though, our beloved little mutt seemed confused about even finding his way to the door from only a few steps away. Everything seemed to confound him.
It was time for a trip to the local vet, a man everyone told us had bite marks on his hands and a heart of gold. His name was Dr. Lindsay, and he also was known as a man of few words.
Very few words. As I recall, he uttered only three: “Likely … brain … tumor.” Stunned, I asked him if he was actually the Dr. Lindsay with whom I had made an appointment, because this is not the way I expected a golden-hearted veterinarian to speak. “Yes, I am friend,” he said, kindly.
Well, this was reassuring, because our new friend, Dr. Lindsay, was going to have the extraordinary and excruciating duty of watching us break down into spasms of grief as we determined that he was the guy to help us take our dog to his last breath. This he did compassionately, after my husband gave our little pooch a last treat and a final tummy rub.
And it was Friend Lindsay to whom I turned when our teenage daughter – bereft at this loss – was allowed to adopt another dog from an animal shelter where no one seemed to know the breed. Tiny, but with long and unkempt hair, the little male dog looked like the business end of a mop. I told my daughter I wasn’t even sure he was a dog – we took him, anyway. We named him Fido, mostly because I thought that would be funny.
And then, tragically, Fido seemed to be suffering the same malady as our former dog. He lay limp when bathed. He didn’t seem to know where he was. When someone came to the door, he gazed up from the sofa, put his down, and never barked. He looked at food warily before eating. It was time for another sad trip to Friend Lindsay.
With the same economy of the language, Dr. Lindsay, looked over Fido, and, in his taciturn way said: “This dog is traumatized.” I felt relief flood over me. He said “trauma” not “tumor’! OK, so we had Fido’s condition, now what was there to do about it. Like a kid begging to trade a chore for a cookie, I told Dr. Lindsay I would do anything, anything at all, just so we could make Fido better. Could I drag him on walks? Could I feed him ice cream? What drugs could help?
“Well, there is really nothing to do,” Dr. Lindsay said. “Except what you are already doing.”
What? This supposedly was Friend Lindsay! What kind of veterinary friend says to do nothing! And why does he call himself “friend,” anyway? Was this some religious thing? Who does that?
As soon as I left the veterinary clinic, I called my husband. “Dr. Lindsay told us to do NOTHING!” I said. “We have a traumatized dog and he told me to do nothing! What kind of vet is he anyway, and I am not calling him friend!”
There was a period of silence. “I think we should do nothing,” by husband said. “Dr. Lindsay is highly regarded here, and, to be honest, I myself am a fan.”
And so, we did nothing. And our dog slept and ate the hours away. And then he stood still for a trim, and we noticed how he looked up at us without objection as we cut off his hair. And how he went to the window to watch as we came and went. And how my daughter could not go anywhere without hearing the click of canine toenails behind her on our wooden floor. The tail wagging began without us even realizing it, until one day I noticed it stopped – when the mail carrier came to our day. Fido never barked, but he stood at attention, regarding the porch intruder with the wariness he once reserved for his bowl of food. How we grew to love this little dog.
It was Dr. Lindsay who told us the breed, even before the grooming had taken place. We had a cockapoo. And it was Dr. Lindsay who didn’t seem surprised at all when our dog bit him while he dispatched vaccinations. And it was Dr. Lindsay who never minded that Fido would take one look at him and urinate copiously on the floor. And it was Dr. Lindsay who brought us the news that we had a healthy, 5-year-old dog who seemed like a great little member of his species.
So … I told my husband that Fido truly had found a friend in Dr. Lindsay, after all. “I don’t know why he called himself ‘Friend’ the first time I met him, but he really and truly is,” I said.
My husband looked at me. “I don’t think it’s likely he actually said ‘friend’,” my husband answered. “Did you know his first name is Ken?” No, I had not.
So what if that first time I met him, in his taciturn way, he said “I am Ken” rather than “friend.” He is both things now. And Fido got a friend, and so did we, and once in a while I say a little thanks for the fact that all animals going through the old door of that clinic are sure to have one, too.