Ever by My Side (28 page)

Perhaps you are hoping I can report that Gracie resumed her responsibilities as Danny’s dedicated therapy dog, that slowly but surely, his muse cast her golden spell, worked her feathery magic and helped him step back into a world of recognition, higher thought, and independence. In truth I don’t know exactly what became of Danny. What I do know is that I played my small, indirect, complicated but ultimately successful part in helping a sick young man through the power of canine companionship. Here was my lesson in the reach of veterinary medicine, in how an animal doctor may not be the one standing up when disaster strikes and someone shouts, “Is there a doctor in the house?” but occasionally, if he or she is lucky, a vet can help heal a sick loved one.

Gracie was the perfect case at the perfect moment. Her story made me realize something so simple, yet something I had been unable to see. It doesn’t matter who it is you love—a son, a daughter, a dog, a cat—just get busy with the loving of life. For the first time after Emily’s diagnosis I realized it was finally time to stop saying goodbye.

E
very now and then children wield their uncomplicated perception of the world like a scalpel cutting through all the fluff and social niceties, deconstructing a complex situation into its basic elements. Whitney was one such child and when she gave me the benefit of her keen understanding, the simplicity and painful honesty of her words reached deep inside me.

Emily had returned home after spending two weeks in the hospital undergoing all manner of torture in the name of modern medicine, and neighborhood friends kept dropping by to wish her well. Every time the doorbell rang the irresistibly cute kid in the footie pajamas knew she would be the recipient of another gift, and we were all so caught up in having her home, no one thought to ask about her older sister. Eventually, as the parade of visitors began to subside, I went looking for Whitney and found her hiding on the other side of a closet door, able to listen in on Emily’s fanfare.

“Whit, what are you doing hiding round the corner? Why not come out and say hello?”

Nine-year-old Whitney looked up at me and in a conspiratorial whisper said, “But I don’t want them to feel bad.”

“Who’s them and why would they feel bad?” I asked, taking her hand.

“The neighbors. Because they forgot to bring something for me.”

I whisked her up and into my arms and gave her a hug. This moment summed up Whitney, sensitive and selfless, the sibling of a child with a chronic disease, grounded in values beyond her years—supportive, resilient, and secretly afraid for her little sister’s future. We had been caught up in our shock, just trying to survive, and as a result, an innocent little girl had suffered. This wasn’t neglect, there had never been a double standard, but I ached over the possibility that she felt forgotten. How best to put this right?

In the two years that we had lived in Arizona, Reginald C. Cat had flourished. With hindsight we must have been mad to let him outdoors—too many predators and not enough knowledge of the locality—but cats adapt and Reggie was smarter than most. So, convinced our cat was settled and content, we began to entertain the notion of a canine companion, and though the choice of dog would have the appearance of a unanimous family decision, secretly Whitney’s input took precedence. And please, don’t be thinking this was conceived as a bribe. Rather, our goal was to make Whitney feel grounded in a normal family, to offer her some companionship, fun, and distraction, to counter some of the difficulties of her situation. To her credit, Whitney never showed any hint of resentment, but I worried that with time and fear, she might try to build a defense against the uncertainty her sister’s future. Her parents would always be there, but here was a chance to confide, share, and vent with a creature guaranteed to become a sounding board and best friend, a family member for whom you were always the center of attention.

I had no preference either way, big or small, mutt or pedigree, though quite what possessed my wife to agree to a rough-coated
Jack Russell terrier I will never know. One day I came home to find a white and tan Tasmanian devil sprinting around the house, intermittently attending to furniture that, in her opinion, could clearly benefit from a good gnawing to achieve a fashionably distressed look.

“Isn’t she cute?” said Whitney, scooping her up. “Don’t you love her?”

The tiny terrier was placed in my hands and, in all fairness, like virtually every puppy in existence, she was irresistible. In England, Jack Russells are a popular breed (often ranked around number four in popularity), with a reputation for being feisty and ornery in the hands of a veterinarian. Right now this little girl with symmetrically tanned ears and two large brown circles on her back remained amiable but squirmy, wanting no part of my embrace, way too much exploring to be done.

“What are we going to name her?” I asked.

“Wishbone,” announced Whitney, with a triumphant tone of finality.

“Isn’t Wishbone a boy?” I asked.

Wishbone
was a children’s TV show on public broadcasting featuring a talking Jack Russell terrier. Was the choice of dog Whitney’s cry for help, her need to have someone to talk to, to share her secrets with when those around her weren’t listening?

“The only Jack Russells I’ve ever seen have been short-haired but one thing’s for certain, the breed originally comes from England. So why not give this little girl an English-sounding name?”

Whitney wasn’t convinced but she played along as I teased her with Ermintrude, Priscilla, and Clarissa before focusing on Olivia, Jessica, and Lily.

“What about Sophie?” said Whitney.

After a pause marked by raised eyebrows, sage nods, and
good-natured approval, our little JRT was christened Sophie. So what if the name, though popular in England, originated in France!

It was always going to be an awkward conversation. My only advantage came from knowing with some certainty how my father would respond to the news.

He and I had gotten into a routine, alternately calling each other every weekend to discuss the minutiae of life in the Dales, my mother’s health, the adjustment of being retired, and last but not least, “the pups.”

“How’s Bess enjoying life among the sheep? Have you dared to let her off leash?”

“No, son, and I’m quite certain I never will. I’m sure she pines for those days when she ran loose across the fields, but it’s just not worth taking the chance. Besides, last thing we need as we settle into a new community is a reputation as irresponsible dog owners.”

And with that, I took my cue.

“Talking of owning a dog, we’ve finally gone and got one.”

“Well, by heck,” said Dad, “that’s music to my ears. I had begun to worry you were never going to get a lion-hearted fellow of your own. Isn’t that right, Whisk? He says it is.”

I could picture the scene, Mum working her knitting needles, Dad with the newspaper in his lap, both seated in front of a roaring coal fire, Whiskey perking up at hearing his name.

I hesitated, a part of me hoping the pause might serve as fair warning for what I was about to disclose, knowing full well that our choice of dog was very different from what he would have chosen.

“So what is he? Or she?” He added the phrase with an air of
self-congratulation, as though pleased with himself for being politically correct.

“She is a Jack Russell terrier. Rough-coat, not short. And the girls want to name her Sophie.”

I imagined him pulling the telephone receiver from the side of his head and inspecting it, as though a communications gaffe had occurred in the intervening thousands of miles, with some stranger jumping in on the conversation.

“Huh,” was all he could muster, and then, “I never reckoned you for a small dog, son. Didn’t you once tell me Jack Russells can be a little—”

“Snappy,” I broke in.

“Exactly.”

“But I was referring to my experiences in the examination room. It’s hardly the same as the domestic situation.”

“Aye, but it’s still the kind of dog you need to be careful with around children.”

Here was a classic passive-aggressive maneuver, a throwaway line with a “told-you-so” punch to be pulled out at a later date if necessary. To some extent Dad was right, but this held true for any dog, and with appropriate socialization, that is, something more effective than I had witnessed with poor Patch, I was confident a regrettable mauling was not in the girls’ future.

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten all about Marty.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“And how are you going to take her for a walk?”

For a second he lost me, until I realized what he really meant was “How are you going to
feel
taking her for a walk,” a small furry creature dragging you down the street.

“Why don’t you come right out and say it—in your opinion, a Jack Russell is not a real dog.”

“Now, son, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just … they seem so strong-willed, and as for their bark … well … talk about piercing.”

In the phrase “strong-willed” I heard something else, something I had known for some time about his relationship with Whiskey, but until now kept to myself.

“To me it sounds like you worry about getting a dog who could dominate you, who could rule the roost.”

As soon as my words sailed off into the empty static between us I wanted them back. I never wanted to be critical of my father’s way with dogs. Who was I to say it was wrong? He was happy and they were happy. This conversation would have been so much easier at a brisk pace in Wellington boots.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” I said.

Another pause, and then he said, “If anything, I think I have a problem with any dog that can be picked up and placed in my lap. If I wanted that kind of a relationship with a dog I’d get a cat. I love our dogs being next to me on the sofa, but I also love their size, the amount of space they fill. To me a dog is a dog, not something I need to cuddle like a baby. That’s all I’m saying.”

For a while we both backpedaled, settling with a neutral conviction that Sophie might be perfect for the girls.

“To each his own,” I said, “but I think Sophie is destined to become a huge part of Whitney’s life.”

“I hear you, son,” he said. “I’m sure she will. And not just Whitney’s.”

Anyone who acquired a Jack Russell having been seduced by Wishbone or by Eddie from the popular TV show
Frasier
would probably
be pulling out their hair and looking for a full refund within days of bringing the dog home. Jack Russells make the Energizer bunny seem insipid and slovenly. Burrowing and geological exploration are inherent in the breed. This was where the hard caliche desert topsoil came in handy. Sophie could while away hours excavating in the backyard. She also demonstrated an incredible talent for catching tennis balls on the fly, her incessant Jordanesque vertical leaps making her look like she was attached to an invisible yo-yo. Her problem lay in the release phase of the game because of those implacable terrier jaws. Obsessed and refusing to drop or let go, Sophie loved to hang off the ball with her teeth, little tail flicking back and forth in ecstasy if I added some whirling dervish action to the mix.

One of her most disturbing tricks centered on Whitney’s extensive collection of stuffed toys. Whitney’s actual bed lay somewhere beneath mounds of beady-eyed creatures—Beanie Babies, rabbits, teddy bears, frogs, ducks, cats, and dogs—all facing in the same direction. Naturally this was familiar territory for Sophie, squeezing in between Elmo and a Velveteen Rabbit wannabe, but what freaked me out was the way Sophie would try to blend in, to be perfectly still, staring out into nothingness with the rest of her creepy menagerie. I might be at the other end of the house, call her name, get no response, and eventually track her down to Whitney’s room. It was always when I wanted Sophie to go back into her crate, as though she knew what I was after. It was more than hiding. It was impersonating a stuffed animal because she had discovered that stuffed animals get to stay on the best bed in the house.