First Responder's Day: Pip and the Sheriff
It was time for a wellness visit.
It was time for a tri-annual, $250, “wellness” trip to the veterinarian. My son, Mr Science, was going to be a vet for a while, and he worked at this animal hospital all during high school, so I know everyone in there on a first name basis. (I make wellness trips there three times a year: once for Pip, once for Dot, and once for Lily Cat.) It was Mr. Pip’s turn. For those of you who don’t know this yet, Pip is running for President on Facebook. His platform is “A Return to Kindness.” He has 74 likes so technically he is a write-in candidate.
Pip is a part-Besenji, part-Jack Russell who looks like a brown and white tator-tot with legs. He’s adorable and he knows it. He’s very sweet, not very smart, loves his people, and is terrified of just about everything, including the vet; especially the vet.
Pip was scared – as usual.
When we arrived for his 3:30 appointment the place was packed and Pip was shaking on the way in. The vet techs and front desk gal greeted us (I told you we know them all, we’re practically family) and I took a socially-distanced seat near the front door. Pip was trying his best to look brave and remain calm when in walked a sheriff: Tightly buzzed white hair, brown uniform, badge, gun, the works.
Now you should know that the only thing Pip is more afraid of than the vet is a sheriff, since he was once arrested in South Carolina and taken to the animal shelter as “evidence” in an animal hoarder case. (To watch the story of how Pip ended up with me, click here.)
Anyway, the sheriff muttered something lo and dark to the vet tech who nodded, and said “We’ll use Room 5,” and spun around into the surgery to fetch the doctor.
Then something very special happened.
When the sheriff turned in our direction to head out, it happened. It happened so fast I couldn’t stop it. Pip jumped up and began licking the sheriff’s hand. When I tried to stop Pip, he said, “It’s okay Miss. I guess he knows I needed that.” Then the sheriff leaned down to look at Pip and when their eyes met, both of them sank to the floor. Pip climbed into the sheriff’s lap, snuggled against him, and pushed his sweet little face into the man’s chest. It wasn’t a long encounter; 3 minutes, maybe less
Pip’s new friend needed him.
When the vet tech reappeared, the sheriff gave Pip a squeeze and said, “I have to go now buddy.” Pip seemed to know exactly what to do next. He hopped down from the sheriff’s lap and sat at attention. And when I say he sat at attention, I mean he sat upright like a tiny soldier; ears erect, shoulders back, eyes following the sheriff’s every move.
As the vet tech held the door, the sheriff walked outside to his SUV, lifted an enormous old German Shepherd out of the back seat and carried him into Room 5. This wasn’t a pet. This was a partner.
When the vet tech closed the door to the room, she shook her head and whispered, “Cancer. Long fight.”
This self-less first responder needed an honor guard and Pip was it.
As the door closed, Pip lifted his head even higher, his eyes and ears pinned on that room like laser beams. He sat erect for what seemed like an eternity and then suddenly he collapsed to the floor, held his head between his paws, and sighed the saddest sigh I think I’ve ever heard. He knew, the minute it was over, he knew. Above the din of cats cursing and dogs whining, Pip somehow heard life leave Room 5.
They were still in there when they ushered us to the room next door. Pip insisted on pausing at the door of Room 5. He lowered his head in respect, before being pulled by the vet tech into the next room where he submitted to the indignities of his annual examination.
By the time they were done, the SUV was gone. I drove home in silence, Pip with his head out the window, staring sadly at the horizon. But I am still swirling in the mystery of “how?”
How?
How did my dog hear what that sheriff could not bear to say? How did he know this gruff officer would welcome his kisses, how did he know to offer him the support that would mean the most to that particular man, at that particular moment? How did a dog who usually quivers at the vet, manage to sit at full military attention with every muscle, every nerve honoring that first-responder’s loss in exactly the way that officer would have honored a colleague?