January
12, 2008
Yesterday
I walked a nine-month old shepherd/collie mix during my rounds
at the animal shelter. Her name is Bunny and she is sweet and
loving, the kind of dog I instantly adore. She has dental problems
and was thus being kept in the grim medical wing, a series of
small, smelly concrete cages inhabited by noisy, ill cellmates.
I wanted to give her as much time away from the cement block as
possible, so we sat outside after our walk, a canine kaleidoscope
-- smells, sounds, birds to intently watch, humans coming and
going. I knelt beside Bunny, scratching under her ears, rubbing
her side, stroking her chest, speaking my affection, assuring
her that she is not alone in this frightening world.
A
shiny black Mercedes station wagon parked directly facing us, the
kind of auto which speaks of prosperity, classical music and a lakeside
vacation home. A couple in their sixties sat in the car for several
minutes watching us. The female driver and her husband eventually
exited their vehicle and walked in our direction. At first I thought
the man was looking at me sternly, but he gently asked if my dog
is called Bunny. "Yes, do you know her?" I asked. "We've
come to adopt her," he replied. He kneeled and began petting
her, then looked in my eyes, held my arm, squeezed it and said in
a solemn voice filled with emotion, "we're going to give her
a wonderful home." For the first time in 18 months, I felt
the love of another person being offered to me. Although tiny, anonymous
and ephemeral, it was enough to bring tears on my walk home.
Richard Gilbert,
San Francisco 01.12.2008
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