Jack Thornton

Not far from the clinic lived a fine fellow named Fred. He liked to lie in the middle of the road that leads down to Jerry's farm, absorbing heat from the pavement, as if he were the sacred cow of India.

 

Whenever I walked over to visit Alma, who lives nearby, upon leaving, Fred eagerly would escort me back to the clinic, trotting amiably along as if the pleasure of someone's company was all that he really needed.

 

A few feet before the clinic, Fred abruptly would turn and, tail wagging all the while, head back home. Because of his seemingly unusual sense of comprehension, I would say whenever seeing him, "Fred, you're a fine fellow."

 

Late on Saturday, about midnight, Dorothy, with whom Fred lived, called to request my assistance. Fred apparently had been hit by a car and crawled under Dorothy's house. A friend staying with Dorothy had observed by flashlight a very sizable wound and Fred either was unwilling or unable to come out.

 

Gathered his gear

Upon arriving, I discovered that Fred had moved farther from the opening leading under the house. With flashlights we could see only his black form and brightly reflected eyes behind a horizontal beam. We called, but the form stayed motionless some 20 feet away.

 

I gathered the appropriate gear including a pole snare and injectable anesthesia and began crawling on my belly toward Fred, feeling not unlike a soldier in combat. As I got closer, I could see the large red wound over his back and right shoulder.

 

Anticipating an emotionally traumatized and perhaps aggressive patient, I began softly speaking his name. When I got to within 3 to 4 feet of him, Fred pulled himself to his feet with considerable effort. Tail wagging, Fred took a hobbled step forward and licked my extended hand.

 

As he dragged his right leg, a raw bloodied stump protruded forward and then up through a monstrous gash that can only be described as terrible. His shoulder blade was completely torn away from his body musculature, and I could see that his leg was useless.

Wagging, not whimpering

We slowly coaxed Fred out from under the house, one painful step at a time. His tail wagged slowly and he whimpered not once. Whenever I reached out to touch his muzzle, he licked my hand.

 

Once out, it was obvious that Fred's injury was too massive to repair. Muscle was torn away over his neck region exposing the vertebrae, and his leg was beyond salvage. Because Dorothy had found Fred in Neah Bay, she decided that his Indian spirit likely would declare that, "It's a good day to die." As we talked of Fred's remarkable personality, Dorothy and her friend softly wept while I gave him an injection to put him to sleep.

 

I never have seen an animal sustain such severe physical trauma yet behave with such calm dignity. I buried Fred at the clinic next to my two old pals Scarno and Zeke. The ground may hold his body, but this entire peninsula is not large enough to hold Fred's spirit.

He was a fine fellow.

Jack Thornton is a semiretired veterinarian. This column originally received honorable mention in Washington State Veterinary Medical Association's annual writing contest.