I got out of the car and into the cold. It was early December, but it felt like late January in Antarctica. My skin was numb thanks to the well below freezing weather. Snow carpeted the ground and I knew I needed to get inside despite the potential for terrifying news, news that could rip apart a person’s life. I had never really reflected on what it might feel like to potentially lose an animal. It had never happened in my life, and I was hoping that that was not the news I was momentarily going to receive. It was so sad, yet so odd that a 10-pound animal that loved only to bark and eat could have the immensely profound impact that it had. But it did. I walked through the sliding doors and into the building. There was no real light in there. It was dark, with flickering lights; this place was hanging on for dear life. The walls were blank; the old, 2004 television that hadn’t been to the repair shop in too long was playing some stupid show on the Food network that transfixed one of the parents of a patient. I thought to myself: “it’s the food network, how can that excite you”? It simply seemed to be a somber place; a place where I thought no good could come. Begrudgingly, I took a seat in the waiting room and prepared to do exactly that: wait. I waited and watched the large hand on the clock do two 360’s, saw a few guardians walk in and then out with their recently cured animals. It was bizarre to me that a place that looked like it could collapse was seemingly working magic on animals. I could only hope that that was the fate about to reach my patient.
After a century passed, they were ready for me to see my dog. The veterinarian called me into one of the exam rooms. There she was, Ellie, sitting on the examination table. She looked weak and in need of a miracle. One of the most somber parts of the entire situation was that I wasn’t even sure if she recognized me.  It didn’t feel like it was the dog that I knew. It felt it was a completely different one, one that didn’t know how to do even the basic things she used to. It was an animal that literally looked like it had such little energy that it would fall flat onto the ground if it tried to walk. I had never seen something that was this severe. The veterinarian said, “The operation will happen overnight tonight, let’s hope for the best” and handed me the struggling animal as I sat down. The doctor left the room to focus on another patient. I had no idea when the vet would be back so I decided to just savor that moment, because I had no idea whether my dog would be living for another six hours or years. It was a frightening proposition to think about.
In the exam room, I was sitting in one of those annoying wobbly chairs that you get at a run down restaurant about to go out of business. It was so frustrating that I could not have peace at that moment. Nothing seemed as if it could go right. Every detail that could go wrong did go wrong, until I looked up towards the wall. The wall, contrary to the blank, dry walls in the waiting room, was carpeted with pictures of happy dogs, portraying an alternate universe to what was mine. It appeared as though they were Christmas pictures from regular patients of the doctor. They showed dogs that were thriving, happy, and in the prime of their life. It for some reason gave me hope; hope that one day Ellie would be up on the wall giving hope to patients that will be in a similar situation as mine. But deep down, something told me that life would never return to the healthy reality that was just four days ago.
Time went by, and I simply rubbed my dog’s back just to comfort her in this hour of darkness. She was asleep, having no energy to do anything. As minutes ticked by, suddenly I began to have another shift in emotion. I, like my dog, was at peace with what might happen. I did not even try to think positively or negatively, I rather began to believe that these are the moments in life that should be cherished. Soon, in the wobbly chair that I thought had no prospect for peace suddenly gave me the feeling of a comfortable mattress. The sleepless nights of the past had finally taken their toll on me. I, with my helpless dog in my arms, fell asleep.
When I woke up, nothing was the same except my location. I was so confused and disoriented. I walked out into the waiting room where it was dead silent. My dog was gone, the television was off, and the front desk was vacant. I was still more than half asleep, but I managed to pull my new smart phone out of my pocket and clicked the power button; it was 3:04 A.M. I tried to remember when I had fallen asleep and I guessed that it was about 9:30 P.M. It was then that I remembered that the veterinarian had told me right before I fell asleep that the procedure would occur overnight in this same small building. I thought to myself, “my dog’s fate is being decided right now in the room right next to me,” so I said a prayer and proceeded to pass out again.