Daily Guideposts - Your Source for Inspiration

September 30, 2008

Animals & Healing

It was a year since I lost my husband. I wondered if I’d ever move past the pain

A Dog Named Bear

by Karen Zee
Spring, Texas

I started volunteering at our local animal shelter right after my husband, Zern, died suddenly at age 42. Suddenly? That doesn’t even begin to describe the shock, the gaping hole his death, from a massive coronary, left in my life, and the unbearable grief that poured into it. A year later, and it still felt like the day I buried him. I’d taken a leave from work. I just couldn’t deal with it. Even at the shelter I kept to myself. But I sure could identify with the broken spirits of those abandoned animals. I’d sit in the dirt in the shelter’s yard, bury my face in a soft, furry neck and weep. “I know just how you feel,” I’d tell them. “I don’t have anyone either.”
    Except my 14-year-old stepdaughter, Christina. Now even she felt like a stranger. We had lived under the same roof for five years, but Zern had been what we had in common, except for one other thing: our love for animals. Christi volunteered at the shelter too, and from time to time we’d foster one of the dogs until a permanent home could be found.
    One hot June morning we headed over to the shelter together. We said little for most of the ride. “I think they might have another puppy for me to foster,” I said, trying to break the ice. Christi just nodded.
    “The poor dog was rescued from a Dumpster yesterday,” I added. We parked and walked inside to a cacophony of barks and yelps.
    “Here he is,” the shelter director announced, handing me a wicker basket. It felt so light I thought it was empty. Then I looked inside. Nestled in a blanket was the tiniest dog I’d ever seen. He was listless, emaciated and covered with sores. I cupped the jet-black lab-mix puppy in the palm of my hand and looked into his eyes. “You look just like a little bear,” I whispered, gently stroking the thin fur behind his ears. “And someday you’ll be as strong as one. I promise.”
    I already had dogs of my own, and couldn’t keep another, but I’d care for Bear—that’s what we named him right on the spot—until he was strong enough to be adopted. Christi and I rummaged through the shelter, scrounging up some puppy formula, a medicine dropper and a swath of lambskin to keep him extra warm.
    At home that night, when Bear stirred at last, his tiny body shook with seizures. “Will he make it?” Christi asked quietly, twirling her long, dark hair around her fingers.
    “I don’t know,” I said. I knew there was a higher power that cared about us, and I hoped with all my might that Bear would make it. But since Zern died, I felt almost as if my faith were exhausted.
    “Christi, get some rest,” I said at last, when Bear fell asleep. “I’ll keep an eye on him tonight.”
    She yawned. “Good night, Karen.” Christi petted Bear’s head and touched my shoulder before going to her room.
    In the morning Bear wouldn’t wake up. I put my cheek up against his warm nose. He was breathing. I took him outside. I thought maybe the dewy grass would stir him, but, like a rag doll, he just toppled over.
    “I’m afraid we might lose him,” I said to Christi. We bundled Bear in his lambskin and packed him in his basket.
    “How could somebody leave a puppy in a Dumpster?” Christi demanded as we drove Bear to the vet, the basket on her lap. “It’s not fair.”
    I shook my head. There were some things that just didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Like what had been done to Bear. Like losing my husband. Yes, Zern was a hard-living man. But he was strong and good—a big biker with a gentle soul. And a huge heart. That it had stopped—just stopped—was unacceptable.
    The vet said Bear was dehydrated and riddled with worms, but his temperature was normal. He gave Bear antibiotics, and explained it was crucial to keep him hydrated so he wouldn’t have any more seizures. “You need to watch him closely,” he told us, “but this one’s a fighter.”
    Christi and I took turns syringe-feeding him prescription food every two hours, even through the night. Afterward, I’d moisten the corner of a cloth with warm water and wash Bear’s face in a delicate, circular motion. He’d nestle against the washcloth, sigh and fall asleep.
    My stepdaughter and I still didn’t talk much. Yet there was something happening between us, as if by caring for Bear we were caring for each other, quietly sharing our burden. I couldn’t help but wonder if that burden was too much for such a young girl to handle.
    “You okay?” I asked her one night, when Bear had fallen asleep after a feeding.
    “Hanging in there,” she whispered, so as not to wake Bear. She didn’t say another word, but took my hand. I silently asked for healing for Bear, and for Christi too—for us. Like so many times during the previous year I begged God to help us handle the pain of losing Zern, and give us the strength to go on. Now, looking down at Bear, I felt the full force of my prayer. Somewhere deep inside all of us God has put his strength, there for us to use when we need it most desperately, attainable only through faith. I felt that strength now, rushing through me.
    A few days later, Bear tried to get up and walk—staggering sightlessly until he bumped into something and rebounded, like a wind-up toy. He didn’t give up.
    At two months Bear was healthy enough to be adopted. His vision had improved and he adjusted to solid food. As his strength increased, so did his energy. Boy, did it ever! He loved rolling in dirt (especially just after a bath, of course), and making Christi and me laugh as he loped around in that lopsided puppy manner, first toward one toy, then another, then in a jubilant circle.
    The night before Bear was to join his new family, Christi and I were restless. “Let’s put together a care package,” I said, “to make the transition easier.”
    “And to let his new family know how special he is,” Christi added.
    I put an envelope full of Bear’s “baby pictures” into his basket. Christi neatly arrayed his toys beside it.
    “Can’t forget the lambskin,” I said, tucking it in. The final touch was a tag we’d custom-made for him. It read: I Am Loved. All the while, Bear slept on his back in a position of complete trust—fat belly exposed, all four star-shaped paws spread wide—snoring blissfully. It was almost impossible to believe that a month earlier he came so close to dying. But the vet had called it. Bear was a fighter.
    “Think he’s ready?” Christi asked.
    “Yeah, are you?”
    She nodded.
    Letting go of him wouldn’t be easy. Letting go never is. Bear had taught us something about that, how to move through the pain and emerge stronger.
    “He’s come a long way,” Christi said.
    I took my stepdaughter’s hand. We’d come a long way too.