I left the animal hospital in Cobble Hill feeling despondent and without my other
half. Nate Dog’s limp turned out to be a lot more than a creaky knee.
He had a bone condition that caused his femoral bone on his hip to splinter and
break. He was in for emergency surgery and I was out with a knotted and hungry stomach.
Luckily, my roommate arrived with a bagful of turkey sandwiches and a
heart full of love. We found ourselves wedged on a wooden bench somewhere on Smith Street with a weathered, older gentleman reading the Times.
“There’s only room for one more here,” he said hoarsely, but then said, “oh ok, we’ll fit three.”
We started talking about Nate, his recovery, and the astronomically high cost of surgery. Our neighbor on the bench, John, leaned in non-chalantly and began to speak with a gruff voice.
“I remember I went with my wife to get a puppy. Came back with three.”
And in my knee-jerk reactive way I thought to myself “oh here we go” as I wasn’t
really in the mood to schmooze with strangers.
Little did I know what would develop over the next half-hour would take me from
feeling panicked and deflated to feeling a sense of assurance and
calm. See, John went on to sweep us away with illustrative stories of his life:
raising dogs, three inquisitive boys, the trials and tribulations of raising a family in the UK, the ramblings of his Scottish National father, the passing of his beloved,
his career as a television writer, and, perhaps most importantly, the integral role of friendship in our lives.
“You’ll be here in forty years sitting on this bench like me talking to kids like you. The warmth of loving friendship is something that endures your whole life.”
As we got up, we introduced ourselves, shook his hand, and parted ways. And as we were crossing the street, he yelled out.
“Hey! Come back some time and let me know how that pup of yours is doing, eh?”
I smiled and nodded. It was one of those moments that was poised for the movies,
which is why I write about it today. What a sense of relief. I knew everything would
be just fine. John said so.
I quickly ducked into the subway and onto the F train where I squeezed between
two people.
“Not enough room here, man!" the guy said. I smiled, got up, and put my earbuds in to join the collective once again.
