by Julie Barton
At the bottom of the pile sat a blue envelope hand-addressed to me in the unmistakable slanty jag of Clay’s hand. I stared at the card for a moment, then opened it gently. Bunker loped up the porch stairs and lay down next to me with a thud. The card had a cartoon of a teddy bear in bed with a blue ice bag on its head. Clay wrote, “Julie, Sorry to hear about Bunker. I am sure he will be fine. He is in our prayers. Here’s a check for the surgery fund.”
I closed the card slowly, looked at the front cover, then opened it up again. I read his note over and over. It made me so happy that he had done this, but also oddly angry. Then I remembered what all of the therapists had said about how his abuse had hurt me, forever altered me, even changed my brain chemistry. And I decided that very moment to forgive myself for believing Clay.
We were both hurting as kids, and his way of coping with his pain was to turn to anger, to turn it toward me. My way of coping was to turn to sorrow and turn against myself. I saw it so clearly at that moment, holding his get-well card for Bunker. I held the paper and forgave the little girl who just wanted her big brother to love and protect her. I told her that it was okay to want his love, and that I was sorry that she didn’t get it.
Then something amazing happened. Once I forgave myself, I felt as if I could forgive my brother. I would never forget, but I could forgive. I could forgive Will for not returning my love when I was in New York. I could forgive my father for his absences, my mother for her emotional unavailability. What if, I thought, I can even forgive myself for sleeping with Jason and for being a bad friend? What if I could forgive myself for being an ungrateful daughter? What if I just decided that all of those mistakes were teachings? Maybe all of those choices I’d made were so that I could learn that what I wanted wasn’t drama and sorrow, just love: love in the way Bunker gave love. Unconditional. No expectations. No strings. Just love, because what is more beautiful than that?
I held Clay’s one hundred dollar check in my hand, fingering his signature and wondering whether my mom had suggested that he send me money or he had decided to do it himself. Either way, I decided, this was fine. Everything was okay. I was going to think positively all day. I was going to hold my thoughts in a bright, happy, Bunker place. And with that energy, Bunker would pull through just fine.
I stood up, went inside, got dressed, and clipped the leash on Bunker’s collar. He hopped a little, probably thinking that this would be our usual walk to the park. I helped him into the car, then left Queen Anne, drove down through Fremont and into Wallingford. The sun blared, and I didn’t celebrate. I appreciated the sun as much as the rain: there was goodness in both.
I squinted and Bunker walked warily through the surgery center’s glass doors. After I signed the papers and wrote the check, a vet technician said he could come with her. I gave her his leash. The words dear god, dear god, dear god looped in my mind, a panicked appeal that my boy would survive this day. I pressed down thoughts of blood-soaked floors, the saw slipping, an unfortunate twitch with scalpel in hand. I knelt next to Bunker, who was pulling on the leash, trying to get back to me and away from the funny-smelling lady wearing scrubs with rainbow-colored paw prints.
“It’ll be okay, buddy,” I whispered. “Be strong. You’ll be okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll have one night here and I’ll be back the second they call me.” Reassuring him calmed me and I put my cheek next to his and whispered, “I love you.”
I tried to wipe away my tears. I decided that I looked like an idiot in front of this receptionist and another man and woman sitting in the waiting room. My mind conjured a room full of people scowling and saying, No one likes you. That dog’s the only one who will ever love you because he’s stupid and doesn’t know better. I nodded and turned away, walked outside with my hand on my mouth. I told myself to stop. Be positive. Think positive.
I started back to the house but panic rose mere blocks from the clinic. If he dies, I die. If he dies, I die. I couldn’t stop the thoughts, and I began hyperventilating. “Oh, my god,” I said, again and again. I parked on Magnolia Street, raced up the front stairs, and climbed into bed. I had an hour to get to work, but I couldn’t even manage to look at the clock. My thoughts raced and I followed. I tried to take a breath but choked with the thought of Bunker in that cold, scary operating room without me.
I managed to pull myself together enough to get to the office, sit down at the reception desk, organize the inter-office mail, and make a pot of coffee. I was buzzing, and the dark coolness of the office lobby, the predictable routine of this job, helped distract me. The office was on the twentieth floor with black-tinted windows. We joked about how the building’s architect must’ve been from California because no building in Seattle needed help filtering the sun.
By two o’clock, the wait to hear from the vet made me feel as if I had a tin can between my ears. I felt light and full of air; as if I might try to take a breath and poof, drift off through the hole in the ozone and out into space. Thoughts going: Is Bunker still alive at this very second? Is he awake? Is he aware of anything? Is he in pain? Did something go terribly wrong?
“Olson and Smithfield,” I said. “How may I direct your call?” Each call could’ve been the veterinarian with terrible news, or the vet receptionist calling to tell me my check had bounced.
“Julie?” a voice said. I couldn’t place who it was.
“Uh, yes,” I said. “This is Julie. How can I help you?”
“It’s your brother,” the voice said. I would never have guessed that the voice on the phone belonged to Clay. “Mom told me today was the big day,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you I am thinking about you and I know Bunker will pull through just fine.” My mouth opened to speak, but nothing came. I couldn’t shake the fact that I had a brother, and that I did not know his voice. It rang strangely tinny, as if the vocal chamber was sure of the words, but the mouth wasn’t convinced about how they should emerge. “You there? Hello?” he asked. I was staring at the empty lobby of this law firm. It was noon, usually the time most attorneys, paralegals, and secretaries were heading to lunch, walking from the break room to their desks clutching microwaved plates. But there was no one around. Not a soul.
This law office could’ve been my father’s law office, where he sat so many days working while Clay and I fought in our suburban home. It was as if I had switched alliances, no longer loyal to my family. I was testing out my own loyalty to the law, to my own justice, to my new family. All of this passed through my mind, then I wondered if I was dreaming when I heard myself say, “Thanks . . . Thanks for calling.”
“No problem,” he said. “Good luck. He’ll be okay.” It sounded as if he was already moving on to the next task. I don’t remember the rest of the call, or exactly how it ended, except that I felt both moved and uncomfortable. Did he hang up and scoff that I was so stupidly attached to a stupid dog? Did he immediately tell my mom that he’d called me—just like she asked? Why did I care? Good heavens, why did I care so goddamned much about what Clay thought of me? And then I remembered again to try to forgive the little girl who wanted her brother to love her. It was okay. He’d called and that was nice.
I found myself mentioning to anyone who stopped by the reception desk that I’d just gotten off the phone with my brother. When people would ask how I was, I’d say, “Good. My brother just called.” Even three hours later, I was still telling people, “I talked to my brother today,” just to see how that sounded.
At the front desk I bent open paper clips into long spears, lining them up like knives on notebook paper, one centimeter apart. The phone rang all afternoon, but no veterinarian. A discomfort in my chest left me patting my sternum with my fist. It felt like a giant man was sitting on my heart. I tried to take a deep breath. Couldn’t.
Bunker, I whispered. I felt him slipping away. I imagined him dead on a metal gurney, the vet standing with Bunker’s head in his hands. Failed. Mistaken. I would
die. I stood up, walked to the window forty stories high, and realized with face-flushing terror: It was right here. The depression. The awful dread. It was right here all along. Maybe it had never left. Maybe I would never be rid of it. It was just waiting until Bunker left and then it would attack again.
That moment, as I imagined Bunker being gone, I thought, I don’t care if I die. I walked to the window, thirty-eight floors up, and put my hands on the glass, so grateful it didn’t open. I shivered. My parents were right: Seattle was cold. “Bunker,” I whispered, tapping an outstretched paper clip on the window, then stepping back and bending it back to its original state. “Please be okay.”
When the veterinarian finally called, I knew it before I picked up the receiver. I knew they had news of my boy. I was standing at the fax machine when the phone rang. I dropped the papers and sprinted to the desk, losing one shoe in the rush.
“Hello?” I said, and in that moment I heard a girl’s voice saying This is blah blah from Seattle Animal Surgical Center and time pulled down, slowed, nearly stopped, and I didn’t breathe. In those few seconds as I waited for their news, I planned to stand in front of their clinic, then step in front of an oncoming truck if they’d killed him. I had my quick death planned, and the turn in my gut was sour and awful and I was back on my New York apartment’s floorboards.
“We wanted to let you know,” she said, slowly, agonizingly, “that Bunker is resting now. He’s doing fine and the surgery was successful.” All the screeching stopped. It was like someone yelled, Cut! The drama was over. I shamed myself, hated that I’d made such a dramatic, stupid, histrionic, and sinister plan. The pattern was familiar. After the rush of adrenaline, the fallout. The blame. What a stupid idiot. What a dumb little sister.
“Okay. Thank you,” I said. You’re so dumb. You’re an idiot. My depression yelled at me from the back of my mind, angry that it had been defeated. “Thank you so much. Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am. How happy I am, I mean.”
“You can come pick him up after 9 a.m. tomorrow,” she said. “He’ll be ready to go, and please re-read the discharge instructions so you’re prepared to get him into the car and then from the car to your house.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready for him. Everything’s all set up.” And with that, the awful voice in my head popped like a child’s balloon.
Bunker needed me. I was needed. My beloved dog, my spirit twin, the one who saved me, the one I had just saved. I had a job to do. I was going to nurse my boy back to health. I had memorized those discharge instructions. I had prepared my bedroom and Bunker’s crate, as if I were expecting a brand-new baby. I’d lined the floor of his crate with colorful blankets and cushions, opened the top of the crate so he could stick his head out and stretch if he needed to. I put the crate next to the opened window and pushed my bed next to it, so that, just like when he was a puppy in that crate, I could sleep with one hand on his shoulder. I bought him a squeaky lambskin toy and propped it in the corner.
I still had a hard time taking care of myself, but having something else to take care of helped me. I was useful now. I could recognize pain in Bunker’s face, and his eyes, his other-worldly, deep, soulful eyes full of all the pain and laughter and hope of all our combined longing, helped me see that I was hurting inside too. It helped me forgive myself, because I knew Bunker wouldn’t want me to hurt. When I was happy, he was thrilled. I wanted his happiness, and through it I found my own. As I watched the clock tick toward the end of my workday and the beginning of my race to pick up Bunker, I thought about how his outer scars were like my inner scars. I would recognize them, tend to them, help them slowly heal, and do my best to care for both of us, with every ounce of my being.
REUNITED
FEBRUARY 1997
“He’s going to want to run,” the nurse said. I sat in an examination room waiting for Bunker to enter. “But he can’t. For four weeks he needs to be kept fairly still. The first week, I want him contained in his crate every minute—only carry him outside to do his business. The second week, he can walk, but only inside and no hardwood floors, no stairs. Only carpets. The third week, he can go outside on a leash with you still carrying him up and down stairs. Still no hardwoods. For a whole month.”
She continued speaking when the door clicked open. Bunker. His back left leg hairless and pink. Two enormous incision scars, one seven inches long, the other about five inches, with twenty-six Frankensteinian staples lining the incisions. The shock of it for one split second, and then his eyes. Our eyes. They met and he was still there, we were still there together. Nothing had taken him, his spirit, his healing, and he pulled toward me, whining, whimpering, and I sank down and let him come to me. The nurse held his leash tight. He walked to me, his back legs moving with a barely perceptible limp. “See, he thinks he’s fine. He doesn’t know the extent of the trauma in there. So it’s your job to force him to take it easy, to take care of himself so he can heal properly.”
“Yes, of course. You’re okay, buddy,” I said. “You’ll be okay.” He lay down on the cool floor, healthy hip down, and he licked my neck, my ears, whimpering, howling a little. My whole body tingled. He wasn’t even a year old yet, and this. He’d been through this. The incisions were long and curved, and the staples looked so much like medieval torture, they gave me prickly chills. I closed my eyes and inhaled him, felt him again, his softness, his calm. “Oh, my angel,” I said.
Too much pain too early in life could change this beautiful animal forever. But too much pain followed by a loving caregiver, a loving parent? That can end up just fine. This, I knew. I turned to my puppy, letting myself fall into our love, our relationship, our miracle.
“You’ll be running again soon,” I whispered. “We’ll be running together.” He rested his muzzle on my neck, a deep, deep sigh from him. He was exhausted, but he was home. We, together, no matter where we landed, we were home.
I drove back to the house from the veterinary hospital with one hand reaching back to hold Bunker’s leg. He lay in the back seat, still a little drugged and completely worn out. When we pulled up to the house, I parked, opened the front door then went back to the car to get him. He tried to stand but couldn’t. “Shhh, shhh,” I said. “I got you, buddy.” I pushed my arms under his body and carried him out of the car like he was as light as a down pillow. My strength and steadiness were unwavering. I walked up each step, no wobbling, no straining, just my voice in his soft ear. “You’re okay,” I whispered, over and over. I brought him into my bedroom and bent over the opened top of the metal crate. “Here we go, bud,” I said. “We’re going to hang out here for a while.” His tail wagged slightly at the sound of my voice. I lowered him slowly, carefully, feeling no muscle strain, no stress to my body. Every muscle was dedicated to the healing of his body now, and that left me feeling stronger than ever, devoid of all complaint.
“There you go,” I said, whispering. The tone I had was my mother’s. I heard her voice soothing me as a child. I felt her calloused hand on my neck, pulling my hair away from my face. “It’s okay to cry,” I said to my dog, and I was my father. I was my wonderful dad on the lake asking me to tell him everything. “It’s okay for you to whimper. It hurts. You have every right to howl about that.”
I sat in the chair next to Bunker’s crate, whispering to him as he fell asleep. I felt as if I could sit there at his bedside watching and caring for him for months, years, as long as it took. If he had to be stuck in his crate, isolated from the world, I would sit with him. I would not let him suffer alone.
What surprised me after several minutes of holding vigil crate-side was that I was smiling. I absolutely knew that Bunker would heal and run again. Outside, cars drove by, wind blew the enormous pine in the front yard, birds swooped overhead, and I sat silent in prayerful meditation next to my boy, relieved and hopeful because he was still alive, and we were together again.
The nurse was right. Bun
ker wanted to run before he could walk. The first day home, he whimpered to leave the crate. I opened the door and he stood up, holding his back leg up off the ground, clearly in pain. I squatted in front of the open crate door and talked to him. “Listen, buddy. You need to go slow. Take it easy. I will carry you outside to pee and sniff, but no walking. Got it?” He looked at me blankly, and I called him out of the crate. He limped out and did not resist when I put one arm under his chest and another under his stomach and lifted him off the ground. I had already opened the front door. I slowly descended the stairs, Bunker patiently waited to be put down.
He peed, hobbled a few steps, and then looked at me as if to say he was ready to go back to bed now. I carried him inside and settled him gently in his crate, gave him his painkillers wrapped in a slice of deli ham. He swallowed without chewing, lay down, and his eyes immediately drooped with fatigue. He would open them periodically as if to make sure I was still there, and to ask, “You okay? You doing okay?”
“I’m good, buddy,” I said, out loud. “And you’re going to be great in no time, my brave little warrior.”
ALL OUT OR ALL IN
MARCH 1997
One cloudy afternoon, three weeks after the first surgery, Greg asked me if I could come to the living room. Melissa and Chris were gone when he sat down and said, “I need to know what we’re doing.”
“What?” I asked, knowing exactly what he meant but wanting only to continue walking, to take Bunker outside for some fresh air. Bunker was recovering beautifully, could walk up the street now. I added half a block a day to our walk. He was up to seven blocks. He just needed help on stairs and had to follow the path of rugs from the bedroom to the kitchen and back. The next surgery would be in about three weeks, and I felt confident I could nurse him back to full health. I imagined that maybe in a few months we’d be walking at Marymoor together, him frolicking pain-free, me behind him, soaking up his joy.