Animal Control brings us sick and injured animals found along the road or rescued from back yards and abandoned cars.  Most have suffered neglect, many have been physically abused and for some, it is too late. 

Coco was a two year old female German Shorthair Pointer.  Animal Control rushed her into the clinic one morning after finding her on the side of a busy road.

One of her front legs dangled by shreds of skin.  Beyond saving, Dr. Fritzgerald literally snipped off her leg with surgical scissors, leaving a ragged stump above the joint. 

The best guess was that she had been hit by a car. Surgery was performed immediately to remove the remains of her leg up to her shoulder.

After Coco’s surgery and recovery from anesthesia she was placed in a large dog run.  Her bandages encircled her chest, around her neck, over and under her remaining leg to keep her wound covered.  She wore a cone.

As soon as an animal is fully awake from surgery they are on their feet and an effort is made to take them outside, to eliminate on their own as soon as possible and get everything working again. Those first few attempts for a 3-legged dog are always difficult.

A sling was contrived using a towel under her front end to help Coco get to her feet.

It is a sad and pathetic process in the beginning.  Why is it always the bigger dogs that become tripods?  

No matter on which end the leg is lost, there are unique struggles.  A lost front leg shifts the balance and makes the dog tipsy.  A lost rear leg places the bulk of the weight on the remaining leg, making going to the bathroom, jumping and climbing stairs difficult.

And, no matter on which end the leg is lost, the remaining soldier is asked to carry on alone, at risk for a blown out joint or torn ACL.  Why the bigger dogs with so much more weight to lift and balance?

Coco’s body began to heal but her spirit did not.  I have never seen such a depressed dog after surgery.  She lay in her kennel, head down, and refused to eat.  Her sadness went beyond her leg.

The beauty of dogs is their amazing resilience, their ability to forgive and forget.  I have seen other amputees wag their tails before coming out of anesthesia when petted or spoken to.  I have seen them give it the old college try to struggle to their feet, as if to say “Oh, something’s changed, not sure what, but I’ve got this!”  Most quickly adapt and regain their cheerful outlook on life, trusting that it is still a good and kind world.

Everyone in the clinic worried about Coco’s failure to thrive.  One day when the chaos of the front desk had slowed briefly, I went upstairs to visit her.  She lay in her kennel shrouded in sadness, a full bowl of food untouched before her. Large, liquid chocolate eyes looked up at me, showing little emotion or acknowledgement.

I carefully opened the large metal gate and slipped in quietly, easing myself onto the floor beside her.

“What’s the matter girl? Does it hurt?  Do you miss your owner?  You have to eat to get better.”

I continued to speak softly to her, stroking her liver and cream spotted sides, her long, soft, floppy ears. She looked at me forlornly. I picked up the bowl and gathered a small clump of the canned food with my fingers. She delicately took the bite from my hand. We continued to chat and munch until she had eaten a considerable amount. Progress. Maybe she just doesn’t like to eat alone. I know.

Animal Control managed to track down Coco’s owner, a dock worker at the Port of Seattle, not far from the clinic.  He had taken her to work with him where she ran free amongst the ships, docks, giant cranes, and semi trucks that loaded and unloaded all day, every day. Unattended, she had wandered into traffic. 

The owner called late one gray afternoon when he learned that we had Coco. 

“I understand you have my dog.  They told me you cut off her leg without my permission.  Now they tell me I have to pay her medical bills if I want her back. You had no right to do that.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”  I replied.  “You’ll have to talk to Animal Control about this.  We are just here to care for her.”

Showing his true colors, with a bitter edge to his voice, he said, “What am I going to do with a three-legged dog?  I can’t take her to the docks anymore; it’s too dangerous for her now.  Besides that, I got her to hunt.  She can’t hunt anymore.  What am I supposed to do with a three-legged dog?”

I grit my teeth as hot, angry tears formed behind my eyes.  “I’m sorry, sir.  You’ll have to go through Animal Control on this.”

Not once did he ask how she was.  Not once did he show the least bit of concern or regret, no emotion at the tragedy that had befallen his dog, nor did he ask to see her.

Immediately after hanging up, I dialed Animal Control.  I relayed our conversation.

“You can’t let her go back to that man.  He’s mean and angry and he doesn’t care what has happened to her.”

The woman officer at AC had already had the same conversation with him and said they were not going to make it easy for him to reclaim her.  The tactic worked for, a few days later, he surrendered Coco to AC, making her the property of the City of Seattle.  He no longer owned a dog that can’t hunt.

Ever so slowly, Coco became proficient on her feet and ate, though still without enthusiasm.

Two weeks after her surgery, Animal Control decided she was well enough to be moved back to their facility to continue her recovery and, hopefully, be adopted out.  

I had become attached to this beautiful, sad girl.  Officer Blue came to pick her up mid-day and I helped him get her out to his truck and loaded into one of the kennels.

Behind the cab of the AC truck are rows of metal boxes, two deep, back to back, with metal vents for doors. Once the animal is inside, it is all metal walls, with only the slits in the vented door to see out…a sad and cold prison.

Coco’s kennel was several feet off the ground and it took both of us to lift her up, a painful process for her.  It broke my heart to see her taken away, still so raw and broken.

As we closed the door to her kennel impulse overtook me, this time tears of sadness flowed. “Wait, don’t go!  I’ll be right back!”  I rushed back into the clinic and quickly scribbled my name and phone number on a post-it note.  “Here, Officer Blue.  If no one wants her, please call me.”

I rarely become attached to our patients.  How could I stand it, otherwise?  The emotional overload would be too much.  As it is, we in the veterinary world suffer burnout and exhaustion from the drama of life and death that is part of the job.

But, there was something in Coco’s sad brown eyes.  I wanted to take her home to lie on my couch and live a life of ease.  I wanted to make her smile again, to lay on the deck in the sunshine, to wag her tail, and regain her joy of being alive.  I wanted her to follow me around the house and keep me company during the long, dark Seattle winters.  I wanted us to be a little family of two.

But, I also knew that three legs or not, she is a German Shorthair, which means high energy.  This breed is meant to run through open fields and find purpose in hunting.  She is born to strike that perfect, statuesque pose, arrow straight from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail, breathing and time suspended, as she silently lets her hunting partner know there is a pheasant hiding ahead in the tall grasses.

Coco would be home alone and miserable.  Dogs need their packs and solitary confinement makes them crazy.  No matter how much I loved Coco, she would not be happy with our arrangement.  She needed a family, maybe some kids, and lots going on around her to keep her mind bright and her spirits up and I could not give that to her.

As Animal Control drove away with her, I wondered what I had done and if Coco was really meant to be with me. When they called me a few weeks later to offer her to me I was able to say no, that she would be better off with someone else.

Two months after her accident, one sunny spring day, I took a call from a young man.  He explained that he was looking for Coco’s medical records. He and his partner had adopted her the weekend before and she would have a new vet in Bellevue.

“Oh, I’m so happy to hear that!  How is she?” (happy tears now)

“She’s great!” he replied. “She’s laying right here beside me on the couch with her head on my lap.  She’s a great dog.  We already love her.  Oh, and we changed her name to Gracie.”

Perfect.

I promised to send him Gracie’s medical records and told him how thrilled I was that she had found a good home.  She would have two active, strong, devoted young men to walk her three legs off and fill the void left in a dog that won’t hunt.

The story I’m about to tell you may or may not be true. And if it is true, I may have embellished. As they say in the movies, “Any similarity to actual people and events is purely coincidental.”

Life is funny and sometimes the absurdity of it seeps through the church doors, waltz’s down the aisle and takes a front row seat.

Joanie is a soprano in the choir. She has taken vocal lessons, honed her craft, and she takes her job seriously, performing with somber dignity, Sunday after Sunday. Occasionally, her position is elevated with a small solo bit. Her highest honor, and our blessing, is when she performs an entire number alone. 

One particular Sunday Joanie graced the congregation with a number during the collection of the offering. She had worn her best that day, a smooth, body-hugging sweater in dusty purple and a floral skirt of dusty purple cabbage roses against a creamy background. Her platinum hair was swept up into a high, severe bun, like an angelic halo. Within that dusty purple sweater proudly rested larger than life breasts, improperly supported for the occasion.

Approaching the piano on the main floor of the sanctuary, she struck a pose, with her posture erect, shoulders back, chin up and eyes lifted heavenward.

Directly in front of Joanie, were the objects of the special occasion, retiring missionary husband and wife, fresh off the boat from the Philippines. Their status honored them with the entire front pew, along with their grown children with spouses, and an aging mother-in-law.

As luck would have it, Missionary Hubby sat directly in front of the Prima Dona of Church Solos as she began to perform. I happened to be sitting in the pew behind the entourage, off to the side.

The piano began the introduction to the performance. On her cue, Joanie took a deep, cleansing breath and began to sing in her high, trilling voice.

As she filled her lungs with air, her breasts seem to swell, also. Have you ever noticed that opera singers always seem to have large bosoms? Do they hold extra reserves of oxygen, like floaties in the pool?

I don’t know if there was a draft, mysteriously drifting past Joanie, or if the thrill of the moment elevated her spirits, but as if taking their own cue, the girls pointedly stood at attention. The poorly constructed bra, ill- equipped for its assigned task, failed to lift and separate, to offer any noticeable assistance.

My eyes widened in abject horror and disbelief; I felt my own face flush.

With each note, each refilling breath, Joanie’s chest heaved and hoed in rapturous splendor. Her voice soared and her spirit leapt to the rafters, the twins in unison.

My eyes shot to the royal delegation ahead of me to register if I am the only one who noticed. Missionary Hubby was at once transfixed and stunned. A flush began to creep up from his shirt collar, casting his ears in a rosy hue, making its way to the top of his bald head where a glistening sheen was beginning to form. He can’t look, but he can’t look away. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he forced down a swallow. He squirmed in his seat, his eyes darting nervously. He looked in his lap, looked up to the ceiling and away into the choir loft. His brow was furrowed, worried, even panicked, as his breathing turned shallow and rapid.

O, God, make it stop. Please, make it stop. 

By this time, I am choking on strangled giggles, struggling to keep a straight face. My eyes watered and a hot flash raced through me from my head to my toes.

Joanie’s song seemed interminable; how many verses are there? I wanted to slip up front and discretely offer her my coat but there was nothing discrete to be done. All we could do is sit with folded hands and pray for the grace to get through this with as much dignity and decorum as humanly possible.

Poor Missionary Hubby will just have to arouse as much composure as his elderly heart can muster.

Finally, blessedly, the performance ended. We clapped furiously in relief, hoping to speed things along, get Joanie out of the limelight and the draft. 

Missionary Hubby mopped his brow and sagged weakly in his seat, and I am exhausted from my efforts. Were we the only ones privy to the spectacle?

When the service ended I rushed to ask my friend Hope who was sitting further back. “Did you see it? Could you see what I saw from where you were?”

Perhaps taller heads prevailed; perhaps God blinded their eyes. In any case, I am grateful on Joanie’s behalf that only we chosen few were entrusted with the view.

For myself, I can’t help but see the bawdy humor in the ordinary things of life, even if it happens to be in church. God forgive me, I am an irreverent churchlady.

~~~~

I decided at the last minute that there’s not much more damage I can do here, so I’m slipping this little story in under the radar to complete the train wreck.

Turtle Viagra

Lest you think the vet clinic is a vale of tears, inhabited by humorless souls…

Exotics are animals apart from the usual dogs, cats, rabbits, and guinea pigs.  Exotics include birds and reptiles and we don’t usually see them in the clinic.  Someone walked in off the street once with a monkey.  We promptly sent them on their way to the exotic animal clinic in the city. Maybe we should have sent them to the Woodland Park Zoo.

Jamie, one of our receptionists, has threatened to quit if a bird is even mentioned, so terrified she is of the feathered beasties. Ginny is a relief tech that helps us out from time to time. We love her enough to make sure there are no pet rats on the premises when she is coming in. Most of us hate reptiles and run the other way when one shows up.

Dr. Fraser used to work in our clinic and would occasionally see exotics. 

Buckie was a turtle Dr. Fraser treated that will forever stand out or up in my mind. Buckie had a most unusual problem…his package. Did you know a turtle tool is equal to the length of his entire body? Put into human perspective and this guy was one impressive hunk o’ burning love. However, this member of envy became Buckie’s downfall.

His owner brought him in because his landing gear got stuck in the down position.  He couldn’t retract it, resulting in it becoming dry and swollen, like some obscene geoduck.

We all crowded around in the back treatment room, leaning in, awestruck to behold the spectacle, as Dr. Fraser managed to lube up the braggart and coerce it back into decency.  Problem solved.

But, a few days later Buckie was back again with the same problem, this time even more pronounced.  A simple jock strap was not going to handle the junk in this trunk.

I am reminded of the Viagra commercials, “If you have an erection lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical attention.” 

To save Buckie’s life, his manhood had to be surgically sacrificed. 

Buckie never returned to the clinic after his sexual reassignment.

August 15, 2019

Seventy-six years ago, on August 13, 1943, my parents were married. Ina and Jimmie had been high school sweethearts but, with the war, he had joined the Navy. He turned 20 that April; she would not be 20 until October.

The US had been fully engaged in WWII for 21 months, since the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. The Invasion of Normandy began the month before and the Allies were feeling confident and determined to rout out the Germans from France. Gen. George Patton was taking credit for their bold move, and Franklin D. Roosevelt was in his 10^thyear as President.

Jimmie came home on a week’s leave. Ina and he were married on Friday, they spent their wedding night in his parents’ home, and by Sunday, he was gone again.

They both passed away in 2016, within six months of each other, after 72 years of marriage. They were savers and left a treasure trove of letters, certificates, documents, and newspaper clippings, a time capsule from WWII. From these I have gleaned a wonderful glimpse of the people they were before they became parents, when they were young and in love, as they grappled with their world on fire, and how precious life was.

On their first wedding anniversary Jimmie wrote this letter to Ina from the USS New York. It was a Sunday.

~~~~

August 13, 1944

Written while I was on watch, as the ship was going through Mona Passage between Puerto Rico and Haiti.

My Darling Wife,

Just one year ago tonight we were married. I’ll remember it as long as I live. Those same little chills are running up and down my back now just as they did then. It may seem funny but sometimes funny things happen in this crazy world.

In several ways I am the luckiest guy in the world.

First, I am an American. I was born an American. No one can take that away from me.

Second, I am Christian. No one can take that privilege away from me.

Third, my Father and Mother. No finer people ever lived. No one can take them away from me, as they are mine forever.

Fourth, my wife, Ina. The nicest and finest girl I have ever met or ever could meet. You are mine and always have been mine. No one can take you away from me. I believe in you as I do the Bible. Nothing but truth, faith, and honesty. Truly, I love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind. From day to day you are all I live for. I’ll never forget how close I came to losing you. Never again will I be unkind, untrue, or disloyal.

(Two things held the meaning of this statement. Mom had a brief engagement to another young man but her mother hit the roof so she returned his ring. Also, in another letter, Dad revealed his indiscretion…he had asked another girl, a mutual friend of theirs from school, to write to him and send him her picture. Gasp…oh my.)

I don’t know how to end this for I guess I could write on and on, but Darling may there be for you and I a million more “13’s” in this world and the world to come.

“Yours”

Jimmie

August 8, 2019

It is 7am and still dark outside as I let myself into the clinic.  The lobby is dark but for the blue-green glow from the saltwater aquarium bubbling softly, while colorful tropical fish drift, oblivious to the world beyond their own. I take one final deep breath before turning on the lights.

Emily, the clinic cat, has been asleep in her basket on the countertop, but now she stretches, yawns widely and slithers out to greet me. The weekend has been too quiet for her and she is needy for her people.

Red lights on the phone blink furiously, demanding attention. Clients are in urgent need of appointments for sick animals and refills on prescriptions.  The fax machine is piled with lab results and ER reports for the patients that couldn’t wait until Monday.  The Outlook box has dozens of emails to be answered.  Ah, Monday….

I begin answering the blinking lights on the phone. Bentley, a 3 year-old Golden Retriever, began vomiting over the weekend, has become increasing weak and now cannot use his back end. The owner pleads for a speedy callback and earliest available appointment.

When I call her back she informs me she is already waiting in the parking lot.  As I open the front door for them, Dr. Fitzgerald happens to be on her way in, as well. She is our CEO and never comes in this early; I breathe a sigh of relief.

Bentley’s owners struggle to carry his 80-pound dead weight into exam room 1.  The strain of worry shows on the husband and wife as they ease him onto the floor.  He is in pain and as a seizure comes over him, he thrashes and cries out.  His owners hold him to comfort him and the wife begins to weep softly.

Dr. Fitzgerald comes in and begins to try to figure out what’s going on.  I leave the top half of the Dutch door open and can keep an eye on them, to anticipate if I am needed.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!

The front door lets me know our first surgery check-in for the day has arrived.  I put them in exam room 2 and call for a technician to admit them.  

Some come for dentals, to clean the good teeth, extract the bad ones.  Some are puppies and kittens coming for spay or neuter.  As the animals age, growths begin to appear that need to be removed. This is routine for the first hour each morning.

Meanwhile, Bentley continues to ride the waves of his illness.

The doctor and his owners sit on the floor companionably, quietly discussing and observing him.  When the next seizure hits they reach for him simultaneously and cradle him to keep him from hurting himself, from hitting his head on the cabinet or floor.

Dr. Fitzgerald decides Bentley should be hospitalized where he can be observed, sedated, and tests run to find out what’s happening.  His owners tearfully bid him good-bye and promise to come back soon.

Something is very wrong with this young, beautiful dog. The first guess is a toxin, some kind of poison.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

The phones have switched over and the calls begin coming through to the front desk.

My co-workers also begin arriving, sleepy and grumbling that the weekend is over, that they did too much, that the weekend was not long enough.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

By 9am the surgery patients have been checked in and we three receptionists are deep into messages, emails, and a constant flood of phone calls. There are more calls than we can handle and sometimes we must let it ring until the exasperated client leaves a message.

We’ve already run out of appointments for the day, so we plead with the staff, cajole, squeeze and manipulate the schedule to work in more.

Patients being arriving for regular appointments.  Dogs routinely pass around diarrhea, eat garbage and have bouts of vomiting.  The cats develop upper respiratory infections and abscesses from needle sharp teeth bites. Annual exams and vaccines, itchy skin, goopy eyes, and toenail trims are all just part of the day.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Click, click, click.

A woman, dressed in her business suit and heels, tapping away on her cell phone, hands me a foul-smelling zip lock bag containing a disgusting blob. “Here, test this and see what’s causing Buster’s diarrhea.”

Ring, ring!  Ring, ring!

Mid-morning I go upstairs where the surgery suite and doctors’ offices are located.  Bentley is in a large metal kennel in the midst of the morning’s busy activity. Despite Valium and fluids, he continues to decline.  Preliminary blood work doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary.

Cindy, a veterinary technician, kneels before his open kennel, stroking his golden fur, speaking soft words of comfort, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so focused he is on his distress. We all shake our heads with looks of concern. Is it a brain tumor?

I gather up paperwork, strike sheets and kennel cards to take back downstairs.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

Monday morning continues to roll on unabated.  Then Dr. Fitzgerald calls down to me.  Bentley is crashing, she has called his owners and they are on their way.  I’m to bring them up as soon as they arrive.

Soon the frantic owners rush in the front door.  We bolt up two flights of stairs and burst in to find Bentley on a surgery table.  Dr. Barrett, the surgery doctor for the day, is pumping frantically on his chest and an oxygen mask is strapped to his muzzle.  But, it is all meaningless now; Bentley has died suddenly and violently, leaving us all in a state of shock.

We stand there with our useless hands at our sides as the owners fall onto the body of their dear friend.  Dr. Fitzgerald suggests a necropsy to try to solve the mystery, but they can’t bear the violation of his body. Despite the outcome, I ‘m so grateful that she was here.

That is my cue to step in and take care of business, like some awful ambulance chaser, like some greedy mortician, I intrude on their grief, “What would you like to do with his body?”

We live in the middle of a city so practicality dictates against home burial of an 80-pound body in the back yard.  I offer cremation services.  “Would you like the ashes back? If so, would you like the cherry wood box or the grey metal urn?”

Who knows or cares at a time like this?  I quote prices and estimate how much time a private cremation will take. 

The rest of Bentley’s pack is two school-aged children. The parents plan to bring them in later in the afternoon to say good-bye.  We’ll deal with that when the time comes.

My work is done here and I slip away back downstairs, dry-eyed. I replace my mask of calm friendliness.  I smile and greet and shine good health to all.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

By noon I am five hours into Monday and famished.  I could eat in the staff lounge upstairs but I have to get away from the sights, sounds, and smells of the clinic.

In the surgery suite the dental drill whirs shrilly.  A post-op dog has developed stress diarrhea; another is waking up from anesthesia and, like a sloppy drunk, is baying mournfully. A cat that hates us all cowers in the rear of its kennel and hisses at each passerby.

I opt to eat alone in my car.  It is quiet as I eat and read and send my mind on a mental vacation. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

It’s early afternoon and shifts change.  Some employees work half days so there is a changing of the guard.  This proves to be a good thing for those of us who work a full day; fresh troops to bolster sagging spirits and energy.

The afternoon grinds on with patient appointments for two doctors, arriving every 10 minutes.  We greet and treat each one as our very special friend.  The cranky, yowling cat, the old and graying dog, and occasionally, a happy, healthy furry friend!  Some come in just to be weighed and receive treats.  We’re making deposits in that animal’s bank of good cheer; it will come in handy someday later.

Bentley’s owners call to say they are on their way with the kids.  He is brought down to exam room 3 and laid out on blankets; his golden curls combed, his countenance peaceful, at last.

As they arrive, I whisk them through the lobby and into the room. Pandora was playing softly but we turn it up now.  A sign is placed on the door that says Quiet Please.  The receptionists nervously chat with the clients who continue to come in, all in an effort to conceal the sound of grieving children in room 3. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

I answer the call of a breathless man.  A car has hit his dog and he’s coming right down.  I alert everyone in the clinic of the impending emergency.

Ten minutes later, Josh arrives with Heidi, a limp, soiled little white Shih Tzu.  Jamie, another receptionist, grabs Heidi and rushes her upstairs for urgent care.  

Josh is in tears as I try to gather information, to sort out the story.  He was mowing the lawn and unlocked the back gate where Heidi and their black lab were playing.  As he opened the gate, the lab forced his way out and Heidi followed.  She knew the neighbor across the street and, in her eagerness to greet her friend, bounded out into an oncoming car, in spite of the frantic commands by Josh and the neighbor to STOP!

Josh can’t bear the confines of the clinic and goes out to the parking lot to walk off the stress and adrenaline.

Heidi’s care has fallen on Dr. Barrett.  Too soon, she comes out to the lobby, then to the parking lot to speak to Josh.  He sinks down onto the curb as Dr. Barrett kneels beside him to break the news he already knew.

He needs some time with his little buddy.  I place them in room 5, the room with the couch.  He sits and holds her, stroking her little white curls, mindless of the dried blood on her mouth, nostrils and ears, and tells me about their daily rituals, how long she has been his special girl.

And I, in turn, must go through my gravedigger’s routine again. “What would you like to do with her body?” 

For over an hour, Josh sits and holds his girl for the last time. Eventually, he calls me back into the room to take her from his arms; he doesn’t want to leave her alone in this room, all alone.  

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

It’s late afternoon now and people are getting off work. Professionals stop by in business attire, carpenters in paint clothes, nurses in scrubs, moms who have picked up the kids from school.

The day and the traffic have tried everyone’s last nerve and they come in with a no-nonsense attitude.  They need their pets’ medication and food and they need it now. We receptionists smile and try to look relaxed, in spite of our battle fatigue.

The noon to 8pm shift is now in the middle of their day, while mine is thankfully ending. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

Monday continues with no sign of letting up.

I’m spent and walk out of the clinic.  Driving home, I am a zombie, numb, tired and hungry; I think about crying but don’t have the energy. A hug and a hot meal waiting for me at home would be so nice, but it is Monday.  The garbage goes out to the curb, the house is empty and it’s up to me to rustle up dinner.  Instead of a hug, I settle for a blanket over my lap and sit mute in front of the TV.

Ding-dong, ding-dong!  Ring, ring, ring!

I hear them still in the silence of my home.  Bone tired, I drag myself to bed and, lying there before turning out the light, I try to pray.

I want only to pray for myself, but then I remember Bentley’s pack and Josh.  

“Lord, bless them with peace and comfort in their time of grief. Lift them up and hold them close.”  

Tomorrow is Tuesday and it begins again.