A Star-Lit Morning--Star Number 2

Dr. Wilma Harrington held the old dog’s head gently between her hands, bent over, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Boy.” She glanced at the chart on the small side table littered with syringes and the tools for exams all veterinarian offices held—and, in this instance, the chart with the old dog’s name. “I’m sorry, Brutus.”

Brutus, a large, black lab lifted and lowered his tail a couple of times at the sound of his name. How, Dr. Wilma wondered, could the dog’s owners leave him now, at this last moment of his life, alone? They would be the smells, the voices he wanted. His clouded eyes looked around a bit even now, as the tumors that would end his time continued their dreadful purpose. Dr. Wilma bit back tears; her job as the dog’s veterinarian mandated her ending the dog’s suffering. That she could do. But, having to take the place of the people this dog loved, that, almost, broke her, this day and on every other day it happened.

Brutus closed his eyes, shifting his head into the rubbing of her hands. David, her vet technician, patted

her back, knowing how difficult this was for all of them. Dr. Willma lectured her staff:  “We will not judge the owners. Some of them really cannot stay with the dogs when we put them down, and it is our job to help the owners and the dogs. We will not judge them."

But, oh, now those words bit hard into her heart, and she kissed the greying muzzle, gently ruffled the dog’s ears, softly ran her hand down his side, feeling the tumors under the skin. The owners made the right decision, yes they had, about their dog’s health. She could not, though, help feeling resentment on his behalf that they left him in his final moments without the only family he had known for 12 years.

Sighing, Dr. Wilma reached for the syringe she needed, put the ear pieces of the stethoscope in her ears, kissed his head, just above his eyes, plunged the needle into the dog’s thigh muscle, whispered, “You are a good, good dog,” and placed the stethoscope on his chest until she heard a soft sigh and his heart stop beating.

                                                                                                                                 

“He’s gone,” she stated, back in doctor mode, and left the room, knowing David would take care now of the remaining duties. Briefly, she turned around, stuck her head back in the room. “Get his footprint.” David barely glanced up at her, a ghost of a smile on his face, and nodded, his head barely moving. He knew Dr. Wilma would not let this boy be forgotten. The “Remembrance Shelf” in the back room already held several plaster casts of paw prints of dogs who had left the world in just this way. She would not let any of them be forgotten; she remembered them—the cast of their paw, their names, date of birth (if known from their records) and death and breed written on the back of their paw cast.

This particular abominable family would not even bury or cremate their dog, but would pay her practice to “dispose of the remains,” having taken his worn, red collar “to remember him by.” For just a moment, the competent, caring vet leaned on the wall in her office, lowered her head, and sobbed into her hands. The animals matter; the animals matter; the animals matter. At times she felt herself too soft for this profession. Her whole life, she had wanted to be a community veterinarian, taking care of people’s pets, knowing the names of family’s companion animals from puppyhood, kittenhood, babyhood of whatever animal, until the families lost them to a life too short. Most companion animals live lives well short of the lives of their humans. Most people who bring animals into their homes feel their hearts crack at that loss.

But, not all. On these days, Dr. Wilma repeated to herself the mantra the animals matter. She reiterated it enough times till she could, again, make it true to herself.

Of course, the families matter as well. And, usually, when such a time as this came, her job included helping them deal with the devastating loss of a beloved companion animal. But, this morning, holding that sweet, beautiful, old dog, left alone when he so needed and wanted his family, made her want to find some self-righteous person who swore she loved her pet, then pulled some stunt like that family this morning, and just slap the heck out of them. Undoubtedly such a person deserved it….and probably she, as a vet and as a human, would feel better.

Well, maybe not. Perhaps she could try at some point just to see how it felt.

Till then, another patient waited. She used the backs of her hands to wipe her eyes, stood straight, mentally shook herself, and put aside her emotions. I’m ulcer bait, she thought.

She picked up the folder for the next patient….a dog and human she had never seen before—the circle of veterinary life, sort of, though this dog was no puppy. Hmmmm. Breed unknown. Age unknown….adult. And did she know Gloria Shepherd? Well, she went to school with a Chris Shepherd. Was his mom named Gloria? Either way, time to get on with the morning.

David would have put Gloria and, let’s see, Star; the unknown-breed-unknown-age dog did have a name, Star. David would have put Gloria and Star in the second examination room as he cleaned the first one of all remembrances of Brutus. Dr. Wilma stood tall, heaved a huge sigh, turned on her heel, gripped the door handle, and stalked out of her office. As difficult as the day began, surely it had to get better.

She then stopped cold in the hall, could not believe she had just thought that. She knew by now, thinking a day would improve led almost inevitably to a train wreck for the rest of it. Grinding her teeth, she marched on.

Softly she knocked on the door of the other examination room, turned that handle, and entered slowly, not wanting to knock an unsuspecting pet or owner out of the way. She needn’t have worried. At the opposite side of the small room, a bench upholstered in lime green corduroy ran along the wall, ending at a 90-degree angle to another short wall housing a window to the outside. It allowed viewing out that window and, let’s see again, ah, yes, Ms? Mrs? Shepherd sat watching birds on the tree growing right against that window. As she entered, two heads turned together, one set of pale, elder blue eyes and one set of deep, brown eyes greeted her.

“Hello,” Gloria Shepherd said. “How are you this morning?”

“Hello,” Dr. Wilma replied, “I think I know you, Ms. Shepherd. Are you Chris’s mom?”

“Why, yes!” Gloria Shepherd beamed up at the standing doctor from her bench seat. The black and white dog’s face split in a matching grin, and the vet found herself smiling back at them, feeling her spirit rise in response. “How do you know my son?”

“I went to school with him. He was a year or two behind me.”

“Why, my land!” exclaimed the old lady. “How on earth someone so young as you could be a veterinarian!”

“I’m not that young,” laughed Dr. Wilma.

Gloria shook her head. Probably, she thought to herself, I just forget how old I am and how old my son is…a man grown, and gone from my life mainly now.

“Where is Chris now?” asked the veterinarian, bringing Gloria back to the present, and she told her about Chris’s job in the faraway town, how well he was doing, and, slowly, how she missed him. As she spoke the last sentence, she reached over and placed her hand on the back of the dog sitting so calmly beside her, the dog shifting closer to the old lady.

“Well,” Dr. Wilma continued, “who have we here?”

“This is Star.”

“And, when did you get Star? It seems by this chart that you don’t know much about her.”

Briefly, Gloria told the story of the dog appearing at her house

on Christmas afternoon, just a couple of days previously. After a good bath, some days of good food and rest, and, finally, Gloria reluctantly buying a collar and leash for a dog who seemed, literally, to read her mind, she brought her in to the vet for a checkup and, probably shots.

And, truth be told, a bit fearfully, to see if they knew if someone looked for the beautiful dog. But, better to find out before Gloria got too attached to this amazing dog….well, okay, too late for that. She knew that news of anyone looking for Star (if other owners called her Star) would shatter Gloria’s heart. Still, what if a child yearned for this pretty dog? Or, what gave Gloria more pause (and that thought, itself, should have bothered Gloria, she knew—didn’t, but should), what if Star looked for a family to come for her, staying with Gloria only as a temporary escape from winter’s harshest hurts and harms. Now she was one of those old ladies who cared more how a dog felt than a human.

Yikes.

Gloria had learned early on that love could hurt, but you loved anyway.  And in just a couple of days, she surely did love this little dog. Well, maybe the dog was not so little; what did Gloria know about dogs? But, she learned a bit more each day…for example, apparently, dogs could practice pretty passable ESP.

"I just bought that collar and leash yesterday at the grocery store. I'm going to get her something pretty when I can get to the pet store," she said apologetically about the plain red collar and leash.  "And for now, she kind of eats what I eat.....maybe while I'm here I can get her some good dog food."

Or maybe, Gloria thought, I should hush and let the doctor ask me what she needs to know.

But, for now, the doctor asked, “Can Star get down from the bench?”

“Of course,” Gloria replied, thinking that an odd question. Did she think Gloria had Star glued there? Dr. Wilma looked into the dog’s deep brown eyes and then paused. She could swear that Star was thinking at her—though she realized that made no sense. Still, “thinking at her” described the sense she felt better than any other words that came to mind. 

Oh, well. Mentally, Dr. Wilma shook herself and put her hands on the dog, making sure Star didn’t mind being handled. She gave a cursory exam, and reached under her abdomen, lifting Star up onto the table. Gloria stood and walked to the table’s side, rubbing Star softly. Star looked at Gloria, placed her head onto Gloria’s arm for a second, for all the world appearing to comfort the old woman. Gloria smiled, nodded, said, “Okay,” and put her hands on the table, not leaving, but not touching the dog any more.

Gloria smiled over the back of Star at Dr. Wilma. “I guess she needs shots?”

“First I’ll give her an exam.” And, so the vet did just that, feeling the dog all over, moving her legs back and forth, rotating her joints, listening to her abdomen, her heart, checking her teeth, seeming, to Gloria, to minutely inspect every hair on Star’s body. As the vet peered deep into Star’s ears, Gloria saw the vet suddenly jerk straight up, staring at Star, her eyes opening wide. Gloria smiled.

“You’re not crazy,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“You heard something in your head, didn’t you? Like someone talking to you?”

Dr. Wilma stared at Gloria for a minute before slowly nodding her head. “How did you know?”

“It happens around Star,” she answered. “I can’t swear it’s this dog. But I can swear that I think I hear her talking to me inside my head. It’s weird, I know. And, who can prove anything? I mean, she is a dog. But, whatever you hear in your head, well, I’d listen.”

Gloria smiled in memory of the first message she had heard the two days before. “What’s your name?” She had looked around, frightened, looking for whoever she couldn’t see outside in her small yard, having just taken out the trash and found a much scruffier version of the beautiful dog now before her lurking behind her outdoor trash can.

Well, not lurking.

But, certainly able, somehow, to communicate telepathically with her.

“It’s not all the time,” Gloria continued, the vet staring at her, open mouthed. “She doesn’t just throw words around. So, when you hear, er, if you hear, it’s special. It’s usually kind of important. Or, at least when she talks to me it is.”

Dr. Wilma stared some more at the old woman, then said, “You know that’s impossible, don’t you?”

Gloria smiled, emphatically nodding her head up and down. “Oh, yes, I know it’s impossible. Just don’t ignore it.”

Meanwhile, Star sat down on the table, no doubt tired of standing in one place and being ignored by the two humans in the room. Her head had rotated between the two women as they discussed her supposed invisible ability. As usual, she watched the people calmly.

Dr. Wilma stood upright again quickly then with clipped speech said, “Well, she looks very healthy. I should do some blood work for a baseline, if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” said Gloria.

“And, I’d bet money she’s a purebred border collie.”

“A what?”

“Herding breed…herds sheep. Or should. Is she hyperactive?”

Gloria looked at this sweet, calm, and, well, kind dog who had so changed her life in so short a time. “No,” she slowly answered. “She’s as calm a creature as I’ve ever seen.”

“Hmmmm. Well, maybe once she gets rested, she’ll show her true self. We’ll take that blood work and run some tests.”

She turned, opened a drawer from the cabinet/sink area behind her, and pulled out an empty syringe. As she turned again toward the dog, she stopped, staring at the dog. In her head, she heard, plain as if the words clanged out loud, “Brutus knew you cared for him. He was grateful for your kindness.”

Dr. Wilma stared at the dog, her mouth dropped open, her breath coming in gasps. Dogs she thought, do not project words to peoples’ minds—even border collies. Border collies headed the list of the smartest dogs every year….but this passed smart; this went into bizarre territory.

Gloria smiled, knowing, again, that the dog had wafted thoughts to the doctor. This time, though, she didn’t comment. The young vet would accept the thoughts, or she wouldn’t.

Dr. Wilma stepped forward, palpating Star’s leg for a vein where she could draw blood. When, again, she heard the voice in her head, she barely skipped a step in the process. “Brutus didn’t blame his family; he knew they were weak people. But he loved them. He wouldn’t want you to be angry at them. He loved them a lot.”

She finished the vial of blood, removed it, and set it aside for David to collect later. She then saw that he had set out for her the shots Star would need.  David had scanned the dog for an identification chip, found none, so acted as if she had never had shots. Her quick heartworm test showed no heartworms, thankfully, and though they would send off for a more definitive one at the lab, they now would just start giving her all the care she needed. She picked up the first shot for Star, but hesitated.

It was weird to give a shot to a dog who continued to talk to you, even just telepathically.

“It’s okay,” she heard, then just shook her head and laughed. Perhaps the situation with Brutus this morning had upset her more than she had realized. “It’s past time for my shots anyway.”

I am NOT hearing anything Dr. Wilma sternly told herself.

She continued her work, rubbed the sweet dog’s hip after the sticking her with the needle, and went around to look in her face. Star’s blaze glowed in the room’s light. The reason for her name shown brightly against the deep black of her head, a white blaze continuing from the bottom of the “star” on her head down over her snout, ending at the coal-black nose. She opened her mouth in a smile, panting gently, looking up at the vet. Uh oh, thought Dr. Wilma here comes something.

“Dogs can always tell, you know,” echoed in her brain, “cats, too, though they get too wigged out sometimes to settle down and realize what they know. But, we know; Brutus knew you cared for him. He had peace when he crossed the bridge. Thank you. All vets should care like you do. And, now, if you’re through with my examination, could I have a cookie from that jar over there?”

Dr. Wilma just grabbed the stool from the corner of the room and sat down. She looked over at Gloria and saw the old woman smile back at her. “I know,” Gloria said. “It’s weird at first. But now I kind of find myself listening for her. She really doesn’t talk that much.”

Gloria walked over and took the young vet’s hand, then said, “Whatever she said to you, believe it. And thank you for your help today.”

“You can’t hear anything, er, in your head like I can right now?” asked Dr. Willma.

“No. If she seems to be talking to you, it’s just for you,” answered Gloria. “But, if it’s anything like I’ve experienced, I know it’s special.” Gloria looked down at her dog, her eyes filling with tears, her gnarled, arthritic hands encircling the dog’s head. She reached over to kiss the star on that shiny black head. “I don’t really know a lot about dogs, but I really think she’s exceptional.”

Then she looked up at the young vet, hesitated, and said, “I know this might be wrong. But, oh, I do hope no one looks for her. It would break my heart to have to give her up now.”

Suddenly both women froze. At the same time, a melody floated into both of their minds:  “I’m not going anywhere.” They looked at each other, and smiled.

“Well,” softly said Dr. Wilma, “maybe that answers that.”

Gloria picked up the leash lying on the table beside Star, kissed a sound to the dog, and Star jumped lightly off the table. Dr. Wilma made notes in the file, gave Star a dog cookie from the jar, then walked to the front, handing the file to the technician where they would check out Gloria and Star so Gloria could pay.  Dr. Wilma leaned over the dog, softly kissed the star gleaming in the morning light streaming in the windows, and whispered, “Thank you, Little Star.”

“You’re welcome,” she heard, plainly and with clarity in her mind.

She smiled down at the dog. “Come back soon for a well dog visit. No charge.”

Star didn’t answer, but Gloria assured her they would return, just so Star could get used to the vet’s office, as if that were a concern.

Dr. Wilma watched them leave and turned to get the folder for her next patient. To her surprise, she found herself humming, her spirit lighter than it had been in days. As she walked down the hall, she thought to herself, “Brutus knew. The dogs always know.”

And for the rest of the day, to each dog she touched, she whispered, very quietly, so their people could not hear, “I know that you know, but don’t ever worry. You’re part of my practice now. I’ll always take care of you.”

And at the end of the day, she felt less tired than she had when the day began. 



© Jana Mauney 2017