This past August--on the heels of college graduation,
moving, starting a new job, and divorce--my sister opened up our intra-office
classifieds.
She saw a dog.
His name was Charlie.
He was a nine year-old Australian Cattle Dog, and was in the
care of a staff member from a different hospital in our system. He had belonged to her elderly father, and had recently made the
trip from Washington State to Minnesota.
Leslie said, "This dog is supposed to be my dog."
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| Maplewood State Park -- October 2012 |
We went to meet his caretakers.
When they said she could adopt him, she got tears in her eyes and
stood up from her chair.
I remember
vividly that she was wearing a black and white, short, vintage dress--with her
black hair and red lipstick, she appeared to have stepped out of a movie.
She crouched down on the floor, her skirt
swirling, and enveloped him in her arms.
Charlie closed his eyes, and was hers.
That is a memory I will always hold. It was moment out of a dream. Out of a glass globe--except instead of
snow, there would have rose petals.
No one could have known that Charlie had adenocarcinoma, and
that in three short months, he would be gone.
What I am thankful for today is grace. That deep, profound understanding that can
only stem from a person's inherent fabric.
My sister gave Charlie an incredible gift. She selflessly opened her heart to an older dog, without regard
for the possibility of such a staggering and fast loss. She left herself unguarded. They went for walks, had picnics, took car
rides. She read him Shakespeare
and took him hiking. They sat outside coffee shops together, and
enrolled in training class so they could be better
partners.
In the end, as in the beginning, the choices weren't about
Leslie. They were about Charlie.
It would have been easy to step back from this writing
project today. To say there is nothing
to be thankful for.
With eyes closed, I tell you truthfully: there is everything to be thankful for.
