Journ Article

I heard the door slam. I heard voices in the hall, quick and assertive, loud footsteps, the jingle of car keys falling against the kitchen table, and growling. I ran upstairs from the basement, knowing that he was home. There was this sense of happiness and relief mingled in with this dread for what was to come – I turned the corner at the top of the stairs, and there was my dog, muzzled and growling, held in the arms of a stranger in a blue coat, no fur on his left leg, eyes glazed. I stopped and stared at Hershey.

Hershey’s a Chocolate Labrador. He’s nine years old, but I still think of him as a puppy. He has soft floppy ears and a little white patch of fur under his chin. He’s terrified of sprinklers, small children and the wooden snowman decoration we put out on Christmas. He weighs 110 pounds – the Veterinarian, the man in the blue coat, was carrying him. I had never seen anyone pick up our puppy like that; he had never looked so helpless as he did there, muzzled, ragged blue strap around his nose, and those eyes, sad and scared.

I can’t tell you exactly what was wrong with him. He hurt his leg, bounding through the snow, and he started to limp. At first we didn’t really think of it as much more than a slight sprain, but it wouldn’t go away. The dog didn’t seem to mind – he got along fine on just three legs, walking and playing just like always. But a trip to the Vet revealed that it was serious. It was one of those paradox situations – either he had surgery, surgery that would require him to be immobile for four months, or he would eventually lose the use of both hind legs.

That day still lingers in my head. When the vet carried our dog across the white tile floor of the kitchen, and Hershey, who had never so much as looked at anyone in a threatening manner, growled with fear in his eyes. Dad had built a pen for him in the family room; we figured it less imposing than a hard steel cage. It stood in the corner of the room, a wooden frame with crisscrossing yellow rope serving as bars. The hinged door was swung open, waiting for him.

We had filled it with a pillow, and his food dish, and even some of his squeaky toys, in the vain hope that he would understand. At least, with humans, you know they know what’s going on. Hershey’s eyes were just wide, pupils dilated. He had been medicated. When the vet finally put him in his pen that was to be his home for the next four months, Hershey just stood there, his hind leg in the air, trying to keep his eyes opened. The vet tried to lay him down, and he yelped – this loud cry of pain.

When he was finally settled, the Vet left, and our dog – our Hershey puppy – lay there amidst those crisscrossing yellow ropes. The family and I sat, and just looked at him, knowing that the next four months were not going to be easy. With the surgery came a chance that any sort of activity could cause re-injury. No walks, no play, and my little brother couldn’t even reach through the bars far enough to pet him. We looked at him there, as his eyes finally began to close, breathing slowing, finally things quiet around him. We watched as he slept, and knew what it was all for.