Looking For Cheer (With a Sick Dog)
Sick Dog
I was ready tonight to write about the wonderful reserve of the old-time British hero, Horatio Hornblower (created by C.S. Forester); this is a character that knows how to pack a great deal of meaning into a very few words; who is masterful at mastering his feelings, careful to mask and make do with discontent, sadness, anxiety. But I come home from work to find my very old dog suddenly immeasurably older. Something is very wrong with her, and suddenly reserve feels immediately like a much less interesting quality to me.
When your old beloved dog is sick, you really are not looking for a friend to say, crisply, “hard luck.”
Certain types of cheerfulness are even worse than the crispness of a stiff upper lip. For example, when you are anxious or grim, it’s not always helpful to have someone tell you, brusquely, to cheer up, or to not give up hope yet.
Maybe it’s just me. Perhaps I am of an argumentative nature. (Actually, there’s probably no “perhaps” about that.) But, when someone tells me cheerfully not to give up hope, I want to respond tearfully, (i) that hope is already far gone, and (ii) just leave me alone.
I find that instead what helps when I am truly anxious or upset is some kind of commiseration–an echoing or mirroring of the upset feelings. Yes, I know this sounds like wallowing–or, even worse, getting your friends to wallow with you–but instead of strengthening bad feelings, this kind of commiseration seems to give a stepping stone for getting out of them. This could be my peculiarly argumentative nature. All I know is that if I am upset, and someone agrees that my situation is pretty awful, my kneejerk impulse is to say that it’s not so bad, and to actually feel some kind of hope. (It’s as if the sympathy gives me enough strength to become my own comforter.)
In a similar play of opposites, many look for someone to take care of them–financially, emotionally, physically–while the being that most readily captures their heart is one that they take care of.
A dog.
Here’s hoping.
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ManicDDaily 
May 19, 2010 at 11:35 pm
Some years ago my family and another family took a vacation together, to Monhegan, an island ten miles off the Maine coast. We took a small boat from Port Clyde, which means sheltered waters for half the trip, but when a storm came up on the open sea, we’d gone too far for turning back to help. We all started feeling very sick, but Jane, the middle daughter in the other family, got truly hysterical. Then, out of nowhere, a woman we didn’t know took it upon herself to offer Jane comfort. This stranger rapidly secured Jane’s trust even after all the efforts of Jane’s parents had failed. When we got to shore we learned that the woman, Martha, lived on the island and thus had considerable experience with bad crossings. And Martha had a philosophy behind her method, which I’ll never forget, and which resonates with what you say tonight. Martha said that she gained Jane’s trust because she acknowledged what Jane clearly felt. No “it’s not that bad”; no “I think the storm’s letting up”; no “you’re just scared, but there’s nothing really to be scared of.” I don’t recall what she said to Jane, but I imagine words to the effect “this is a very bad storm, not the worst I’ve seen, but bad,” and “I know it’s such a terrible feeling, doesn’t it make you dizzy and mess up your stomach.” Indeed, Martha was so effective, that of the nine of us, only Jane kept down whatever she had in her stomach. The trauma might have made Jane swear off boats forever, but mastering the fear actually left a positive memory, and her family goes back there year after year.
So yes, love doesn’t discriminate on the basis of species, your dog is family to you, and in a world where we all feel so fragile, the thought of the possible loss can make you so sad. Now that you’ve told us all this much, please keep us posted!
May 20, 2010 at 8:04 pm
Thanks, David. I appreciate your concern. And story. Some people are very good at comforting; it’s a definite skill (or gift.)