When your guide dog is sick your heart stops and you have to talk softly to both your heart and your dog. I feel a heavy frost though its summer. I know in rational terms that a mast cell tumor on her belly is probably not going to kill her–but we won’t know whether the tumor has progressed into her lymph system or what kind of tumor it is until after the surgery which will be on Monday. Meanwhile I go from room to room rubbing my eyes. I love my girl Nira so much. She’s also the half sister of my first guide dog Corky. We’re a team–a heart team. I’m frightened.
Sometimes all the particles of the human body shout together. “I don’t believe it,” cry the particles. “I don’t believe in unfairness!” And the mind, that inveterate slow mill, tries to sound like the autocrat at the breakfast table: “You kids stop arguing! Life is hard. Eat your porridge!” The scattered and sensate body parts cry out how unfair the mind is. Everyone sulks. Meanwhile your beloved dog goes on wagging her tail and looking at you with her deep admiring eyes and pretty face because she knows you’re a worthy part of her pack and heart.
I’ve lost two guide dogs and many beloved pets. I’m tired of losing, you fates, do you hear? But the fates don’t hear a thing.
Planet of the Blind 