Walking the path

(3-minute read)

One morning years ago, I had just put on my suit coat and was about to leave for work when I heard my wife say, “Something’s wrong with the dog.” Kacie, our 14-year-old blonde Cocker Spaniel, had recently had numerous medical issues. When I looked at the dog, she was in obvious pain.

I called the veterinarian, and the receptionist put me through to him on the phone. After explaining the symptoms, he said, “She is old for a Cocker Spaniel, and I think you need to consider whether it’s worth putting her through more.”

We’d had Kacie since she was a pup. She was part of the family, and we loved her. “I can’t make that decision. Tell me what to do,” I said to the veterinarian.

The veterinarian said, “It’s time. To extend it out would just make the dog suffer needlessly. You should bring her in, and we will take care of it. I’m sorry.”

When I arrived at the veterinarian, the receptionist recognized me and told me to have a seat; it would be just a moment. Instead of the technician coming out to get us, the veterinarian came out and approached me; he put out his arms and took the dog. I started to cry. I don’t mean just a tear running down my cheek; they could hear me cry. The veterinarian’s eyes began to water, and I looked away towards the reception desk, but both receptionists had grabbed Kleenex and started crying. I tried to talk, but words wouldn’t come out. I turned to the door and saw that two women had pulled their dogs up into their laps and were holding them tight, and both were crying.

When I got home, my wife looked like she had been crying since I left. I decided to have a cup of tea to calm down now that it was over. My daughter, who was 12 at the time, walked into the kitchen and asked, “Where is Kacie?” I immediately began to cry again. She told me later that it was the first time she had ever seen me cry, and before I could say a word, she knew what had happened.

Many people don’t understand the impact of someone losing their pet. The veterinarian, receptionists, and the ladies there with their pets understood, as did my family.

About a year later, a secretary at the office looked upset one morning. I asked if she was okay, and she said her dog had died that morning. Remembering Kacie and what I had gone through, I said, “I am so sorry. It was more upsetting than I expected when I lost our dog. It’s fine if you want to take the day off; it won’t count as vacation or anything.”

She said, “No, if I go home, I’ll be alone. I would rather stay here.”

It’s not always easy to understand the impact on someone who has suffered a loss. A man loses his job, and we understand the loss of income but may not recognize the grief caused by the loss of identity he got from that job. When he gets another job, in time, he can be restored.

If your child goes away to college, others don’t look at it as being a loss, but parents often feel grief without realizing what it is. That grief is softened by the joy of their advancement in school.

The problem with the death of a loved one is that we don’t see the joy they experience in heaven resulting from that death. If we could see them and see that they were okay and happy, it would soften the grief so we could rejoice with them. That must be done by faith.

As we prepare our house for family coming in for Thanksgiving, I can’t help but think of our daughter, Debi, who we lost to breast cancer in March of last year. I’m just not ready to write about that loss yet.