Veterinarian Nick Trout, author of the New York Times bestseller Tell Me Where it Hurts, has given us another lovely portrayal of the deep bond between humans and their pets. He draws a beautiful verbal picture of the soul connection we feel for certain animals that pass through our lives. Trout takes us on the emotional roller-coaster the owners of dogs Helen and Cleo go through in trying to save their beloved pets.
An interesting sub-theme is how much these animals come to mean to the veterinarians themselves. It is all too easy to see the professional neutrality vets maintain in the examining room as detachment. Dr. Nick gives us a glimpse into the compassion and dedication he invests not only in the treatment, but in the animals themselves. I found his empathy comforting.
An unexpected bonus is that Trout not only has an interesting story to tell, but he he has a clever turn of phrase and tone that makes the book a really enjoyable read.
If you’ve had a poignant experience with one of your pets that expresses the love, loss, or redemption embodied in this book, please share it in “comments” below. The most touching story will earn the writer a free copy of the book, Love is the Best Medicine.
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Tony the Italian Cat (also known as Gato Italiano and Dolce Bambino) was born in New York City, probably in 1984. My nephew and his partner had gone to the Manhattan ASPCA for a kitten, but when they saw a huge (20 pounds+), handsome, tuxedo cat with a rakish black mustache crammed into a small cage, looking miserable, they knew they had to take him home. Two years later, they were moving and couldn’t take the cat, and he ended up coming to live with me.
He was a classic stereotypical New Yorker — brash, standoffish, suspicious. He seemed contented with his new home, and he was a funny and charismatic cat, but he always had that edge. He seldom purred, and never indicated much affection. He seldom slept on my bed.
He lived with me for about ten years, and then he got cancer. By the time he was diagnosed, the vet estimated he had just weeks to live. I was devastated. Tony didn’t express any particular love for me, but I was nuts about him.
Early one October evening, my partner and I were sitting opposite each other at our picnic table in the back yard, chatting. I was leaning forward with my forearms resting on the table, parallel to my body, my hands together. Tony jumped up on the bench, then onto the table; and as we watched, amazed, he came over to me, stepped into my arms with all four feet, settled down with his head on my forearm, and started purring as if this was something he did every day. I stroked his head and began telling him all the things I felt about him, all my memories of him, how much I would miss him, what messages I wanted him to carry to cats and dogs I’d lost in the past. He stayed there, contented and purring, for the next two hours, as my partner brought me a coat, then some dinner, and the sun went down and it began to get dark. I was stiff and cold, but i couldn’t bear to break the spell.
Finally he got up and went into the house for a bite to eat. For the remainder of his life — about three weeks — I slept near him, wherever he was. When he was under the piano, I made a bed on the couch, six feet away; a while after lights out, he came over and got on the couch with me. When he curled up in the den, I moved some pillows onto the den rug, and settled down there; he came over to me, plastered himself against my side, and purred himself to sleep.
Shortly after that, with the vet’s help, he died.
I have always been so grateful to have had that time with him at the end.
What a wonderful love story, Jennifer. It evoked such sweet images; and a situation all cat-owners will recognize, the inability to break the spell once a cat has made his nesting place on or near you. Thank you for sharing.