Rocky Rising

You can be up, or you can be down.

And unless we’re talking about a fluctuating mood or perhaps stocks that go one direction and then compensate with a swing the other way, there’s a whopping big difference between the two states— especially if we’re referring to being physically, literally UP on your feet and moving around or DOWN, horizontal, stuck.

Whether you’re a two-legged creature or a four-legged one (I can’t vouch for the six-or-eight legged kind) this contrast might be painfully familiar.

This week, I am celebrating the fact that our beloved dog Rocky was down—over four whole excruciating days at the vet’s – but now is up. He’s not quite the same kind of carefree up as he was before this chapter began, but just the fact that he’s no longer fully down gives plenty to rejoice over. And so I’m remembering him through the seasons we’ve had so far together, now looking forward to more.

In this life, if we don’t practically jump up and down about significant kinds of victories, we’re apt to flail around in a bog of  troubles, either real or perceived.

On the topic of rejoicing: when you’re married or otherwise attached to a pastor, you tend to be especially alert to any instances of rising up that happen. The story of Jesus and the empty tomb is central to the faith; he breaks the bonds of Death, joins with God, provides us with new Life. It’s spectacular all right.

What I tend to be more familiar with, and I suspect this is true for most of us, are the minor daily triumphs that don’t change the entire history of the world, indeed are mere blips on the screen, but do give us the kind of bounce in our step that helps us keep trying.

As best they could tell at the vet’s office from an x-ray that didn’t show soft tissue, Rocky was suffering from an inflamed disc in his back. Judging from the high-pitched yelping that he did when he tried simply to shift his position overnight, he was in debilitating pain. While the day before he’d been at least getting around, suddenly he could not get up—at all. This was a new and very scary low. Almost like a gust of cold winter had burst in the door.

My husband managed somehow to pick up his 70-plus pound frame and get him in the car, and when we arrived at the office, they brought out a stretcher to convey him inside. Giving us the choice of taking him to a bigger clinic where they could do MRIs and possibly surgery, they recommended first trying to care for him there with a combination of medications that could, if we were lucky, gradually soothe the pain and allow the disc to – these are my words – “press less.”

We had nothing to lose, everything to gain. He stayed. And stayed. And stayed.

In the house, I saw Rocky Reminders everywhere.

There was his bed, his toys, his dishes. Worse even was taking a beautiful trail walk, with New Hampshire foliage at its height, without him. We all know how this goes: certain moments that could be about fullness, and are in fact– for other people, may be instead crushingly about absence.

Each time I called, the front desk person cheerfully said that he was eating, taking his meds, was reasonably alert. But he was still down.  Finally, though, the message on the phone delivered magic. “I’m thinking we ought to send Rocky home this afternoon….” The sunshine outside streamed in.

I arrived at a very busy office, with cats and dogs and a couple of bunnies coming and going. Someone even brought in a dog, owner unknown, who had jumped out of a car window nearby and been hit. One of the vet techs— I will appreciate her forever– paused in her routine long enough to describe for me what had happened there last evening.

“Oh, you’re Rocky’s owner? We love him so much!” She clutched her heart.

“Last night, as we were getting ready to close, doing all the chores, all of sudden, somebody said, ‘He’s up!’ and we all looked and sure enough, Rocky was on his feet, starting to walk. We were all so thrilled and started cheering, dancing around. It had been a really long day around here for all of us, with some very tough cases, so we were really ready for some good news.”

As was I. Trying to refrain from hugging her, because I was only one client among many, I moved my car around by the outdoor ramp and awaited the best reunion I’d enjoyed in months. He came out pulling hard at the leash and this time, when he saw me, his high-pitched yelping was about the opposite of pain.

If there’s a spot on the dial for “completely up,” that’s where we were. Funny, too, how even a single moment like this can, like a gem in your pocket, be tucked away.