Animals
I spent an hour and a half in the vet’s office yesterday.
I was stuck there waiting with Tippet for a routine shot and witnessed first-hand my dog’s unconditional love. He teaches me from time to time about these things; his lessons are all consoling actions.
While we waited, I combed his coat. He’s molting–early perhaps due to the unseasonable, unfathomable winter. He threw all of his weight against my leg, laid his head back and stuck his enormous tongue out while he panted his hot breath into my knee. My gentle combing soothed him and he pushed himself even harder into my knees.
The door to one of the rooms opened and a young girl, about eight or so, rushed out. Her face was crimson–her eyes soaking and swollen with tears. Her dog was inside the room and it didn’t look good. The vet came out next with parts of a stethoscope still in his ears, casting a worried look on his face, and scrambled into some adjacent room to retrieve some instrument. The dog inside let out a desperate, hoarse cry and, upon hearing that, the girl sank to her knees and prostrated herself on the ground in front of Tippet and myself, sobbing uncontrollably. Her mother beckoned her back into the room and the girl shook her head which was now buried in her arms behind the padded walls of her thick winter coat. Her ponytail danced from side to side as she sobbed.
Humans don’t know what to do in these situations; on that timeless scale of indecision, humans freeze up while they place the heavy weights of inconvenience or embarrassment on one side and loving action or charity on the other.
Humans look away; dogs don’t.
Tippet heard her cries, recoiled his tongue into his panting mouth, lifted himself up off my knees, and went to work. His tail was high up, alternating playfully from side-to-side; his mouth was wide open and he smiled at her. He gently trotted over to her and nudged her elbow with his wet nose. She felt his touch; she felt his magical presence, lifted her head up, and looked into his smiling eyes behind her tears.
She then wiped her nose across the edge of her padded jacket and laid her small, trembling hand on his head. Tippet kissed her hand with his tongue, panted a hot pant and rolled onto his back–exposing his belly–offering himself to her.
By this time I had caught up with the leash. I was on my feet standing over the two of them but I was still silent and still dumbstruck, still indecisive–playing the role of a hiding Apostle in some Passion play.
What a perfect role for me.
The image of my dog offering himself to a small girl is now ingrained in my head: his warm, pink belly underneath his chalk-white fur, his extended paws, and his smiling face now leaning against the girl nudging her hand–telling her that he is brave enough and loving enough to make the ultimate sacrifice for her.
“Here I am. Take me. I’ll walk that dark line for you. I’ll offer myself up to you so that you can have the object of your tears back. I’m yours, only ask….only ask…”
The girl grasped it all, smiled, and asked me simply, “What’s his name?”
I was calm. I was gentle, standing back at the furthest end of the extended leash still not quite involved, “Tippet.”
“He’s such a nice dog.”
Me, gently again: “Yes, he is. He’s wonderful.”
