We’re Not The Only Ones Who Grieve

I only now understand and firmly believe what actually happened. When I was 14 years old, working for the summer as a veterinary assistant at a pet hospital in Richmond, Virginia, I worked in the distemper ward and went on house calls (farm calls, usually) with the then President of the American Veterinary Association, who ran the hospital and volunteered to help educate this would-be veterinary student.

Among the challenges we faced were pregnant cows, injured horses, and a variety of domestic stock that grazed in nearby pastures. (I will spare you the full description of my putting on a plastic glove, stretched from fingertips to armpit, in order to assist a reluctant calf trapped in its mother’s birth canal. It was a memorable event, I can tell you that.) My responsibilities also included feeding our canine guests and cleaning the kennels out back of the clinic.

On opening the door to that area, you were instantly greeted by the loudest yelping, barking, jumping, ear-splitting canine cacophony ever heard by a veterinary assistant anywhere. They were an excitable, noisy bunch. Except …

On the sad occasion of a dog’s death at the hospital, no matter the size of the animal, the breed, or the reason the dog had died or was euthanized (I personally despise that word), I was tasked with carrying the dead animal through the kennels to the alley in back of the hospital, where it remained until it was taken away.

From the second I opened the door to the kennels, and while I carried the body in my arms, or on a cart, past the rows of chain-linked runs, all of the dogs stood watching, noses pressed against their kennel gates … and never made a sound.

In Memory of Von Saar’s Essence of Marseille 1965-1976 - We continue to grieve.