Unsaid

by Neil Abramson

  When I find him, he is walking down a wooded path next to a large black dog. The dog is unfamiliar to me. Seven years is a long time in the life of a family.

  I immediately see that the dog suffers from a bad case of hip dysplasia, meaning that its hips do not sit properly within their sockets. The dog walks with its hips pressed against David’s legs for support. As a result, David and the dog must walk at exactly the same pace, one leaning against the other, which they do with great familiarity.

  The two reach the end of the path and soon come to a small house. They climb the few steps to the front door. Next to the front door, a simple wooden sign reads:

  DR. JOSHUA MARKS, DVM

  DR. SALLY HANSON, DVM

  David smiles at the sign, and his entire face lights up. I smile, too.

  David and the dog enter what appears to be a veterinarian’s office. Posters on the walls describe the benefits of heartworm prevention and canine oral hygiene. Four cats—one of whom appears to be an adult version of Tiny Pete—are nestled lazily together in a bay window.

  A cheerful young woman, the office receptionist, says, “You’re back early. How’d the conference go?”

  “Good. We found a chimpanzee who tested at the level of a five-year-old. It looks like we finally may be ready to bring an action on a civil rights theory.”

  “Finally, a chimpanzee as a plaintiff. I really never thought it would happen.”

  “You need a little less head and a little more heart,” David tells her with a smile.

  Their conversation is interrupted by a stern voice coming from a room behind the reception desk. The voice unmistakably is Sally’s. “Follow me on this one, okay?” Sally tells some unknown subject. “How would you feel if you were vomiting continuously for three days and nobody seemed to notice? I mean, that’s just stupid! And you are not a stupid man, are you?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Hanson,” the unidentified man answers. “You’re right. I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me,” Sally says. “I’m not the one who’s been sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Bandit,” the client says.

  “Okay then. You sit right there. I’m going to take some blood.”

  The receptionist shakes her head in disbelief. “I continue to be amazed that her clients come back.”

  “People put up with a lot when you truly care about their animals.”

  Sally steps out of her exam room with a pug in tow. She sees David and runs over to hug him. “Damn, you’ve been gone a while.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Yeah, but Joshua’s really been pouting for the last two weeks without you. Take him with you next time, will you?”

  “I would, but he can’t bear to leave you.”

  “I know he paid you to say that. I’ve got to get back to work, but come by for dinner tonight? Clifford wants you to look over his college application essay.”

  “I’ll be there,” David says.

  David walks to the rear of the office and stops so his dog can catch up. When the two are side by side again, they continue forward.

  David and his dog come to a huge wall mural.

  The mural has been painted in exquisite detail: Cindy, holding her doll, and with a book open in her lap, sits in the middle of a circle composed of humans and animals, including Skippy, Bernie, Chip, Collette, Arthur, Alice, a large stag deer, me, David, Joshua, and Sally. Cindy appears to be reading to us and we are all listening intently. The book she is reading from is Ethical and Religious Implications of Primate Vivisection by Stuart Ross. I know just from looking at it that this is Clifford’s work and his vision. I can guess the passage Cindy is reading.

  David smiles at the mural in a sad and knowing way as he passes it. I’m betting that he has the same smile every time he walks past.

  Finally, David and his dog come to the back door of the clinic. Behind that door I can hear children laughing and a dog’s playful barking.

  David swings the door open to reveal a large grassy field enclosed by a picket fence. In the field, a dozen dogs of different breeds and sizes play with each other and humans of various ages. Several of the people seem to know David; they wave to him, and he answers in kind.

  A small rubber ball crosses David’s path, and a border collie chases it. A young girl of no more than eight runs after the dog. She stops in front of David so he can pick her up and swing her in the air. The girl throws her head back in laughter. David gently places her on the ground and she continues running after the dog almost without missing a step. Through all of this, David’s dog stands proudly by his side.

  A handsome young man jogs after the girl and the dog. He, too, stops in David’s path. Jimmy has grown up; only the scar, the missing ear, and the crooked smile identify him as the teenager intent on saving a box of kittens long ago. David shakes Jimmy’s hand.

  “So, how’s Cornell vet school’s newest student?” David asks.

  “You heard already?”

  “Good news travels fast.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going.”

  “You worked hard. You deserved to get in.”

  “But the scholarship… I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “The foundation chose you because of the way you’ve chosen to live your life. We’re proud to sponsor you.”

  The young girl who had chased the dog with the ball is now being chased by the dog. She’s laughing even harder than before. “C’mon, Jimmy,” she calls out.

  Her laughter is infectious as Jimmy and David watch her run past. “I think you’re needed over there,” David says. Jimmy hugs David tightly for a long few moments, then joins the chase. David watches them, enjoying their play, before he continues down the path.

  Five hundred yards from the field, David arrives at a modest house. The dog makes its way up the few stairs, nudges the front door open with a foreleg, and then walks inside the house for water and to rest.

  This is where David lives now, surrounded by humans and non-humans who care about him and whom he cares about. He chose well. His life is not small.

  If you were to ask David about the how and the why he came to be here, and if he was inclined to answer, he would offer you some vague explanation about me and Cindy and the need to protect those who speak in a language we are not prepared to hear.

  But I think I know better. I know the real reason.

  David took a life; he depressed a syringe plunger and killed another living creature. By giving death, he finally came to understand that his pain and his fears—the very things that prevented his connection to others and his better self—had no real meaning.

  David, now without his dog companion, walks past the house to a small red barn with an attached paddock that has been carved out of an acre of forest. Two horses I do not know join him by the fence. He takes a face in each hand and scratches their chins.

  There is a third horse in the paddock. He stands behind these two, neither moving forward nor retreating. This horse I know. My Arthur. David nods to him, respectfully. Arthur takes a slow step toward David and stops. He will advance no farther. Seven years and one step forward. David does not appear troubled by that calculation and neither does Arthur. It’s as if they’ve both come to understand that—human or not—sometimes the heart just works that way.

  David continues on into the woods. He soon comes to a six-foot-high stone wall with a rounded wooden door set within the masonry. David takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door.

  The door swings open, revealing an expansive, well-tended garden. Bold patches of floral color spread out in all directions. This place is oddly familiar, although I’m sure I’ve never seen it before.

  Then the years fade away and I remember. This is the secret garden that David had planned for me, the garden that had been drawn in the blueprints David had received so many years earlier.

  David enters the garden and closes the door behind him. A large stone bench shaded by an old oak tree sits in the cente
r and across from several stone markers. I can read some of the names on the markers—SKIPPY, CHIP, BERNIE, COLLETTE, CINDY, ALICE, as well as a few others that are not familiar to me.

  Max is here, too, as he wished. Wouldn’t you just know it? His funeral took place on a cold, rainy, unpleasant day—and hundreds came. David gave the eulogy. Everyone cried, but no one louder than David (or so Max claimed).

  And, yes, my name is also on one of the stones.

  David sits on the bench and breathes in the scent of lilacs while he listens to the humming of the bees at work.

  A cat walks out of the flowers and sits in front of my stone. My old friend Henry. He looks no different than when I left him. I cannot help but smile as he begins to clean himself, completely ignoring David. Seconds later another cat comes from a different direction and lies down in a patch of sun in front of Skippy’s stone. He is followed by a third and fourth cat, who sit before the other stones.

  In moments the garden is filled with more than a dozen cats—orange, black, long-haired, short-haired, tabby, and calico—who sunbathe in serene comfort and security.

  My husband watches the cats in silence for a few minutes and then breaks into a broad smile. He says one word:

  “Helena.”

  There is one last bit of information that I want to leave you with before I must go.

  I was correct about what was waiting for me. Those creatures I’d been afraid to face in death actually were there in the end. All of them.

  They looked into my heart with grace, mercy, and dignity and then lifted the weight I’d so long carried there. They were more forgiving of my humanness than you can possibly imagine.

  Amen.

  Afterword

  One of the wonderful consequences of writing Unsaid is that I’ve had the opportunity to hear from readers about the impact animals have had on their own lives. Every experience is different and, yet, they are all profoundly moving. I would like to share with you a bit of my experience and how it resulted in this novel, in the hope that it will inspire you to return the favor.

  When I met the woman who would later become my wife, I went from living in a small, dark apartment in Manhattan with a dead cactus to a house full of life. Amy, a veterinarian with a practice over an hour outside of New York City, had already managed to acquire a family of her own—horses, a pig, dogs, cats, birds, and even a chinchilla named Hopscotch. Like David in the novel, I was grateful to be able to share in that life, but also challenged by the needs of so many creatures I couldn’t understand. Before Amy, the closest I had ever come to a horse was Gumby’s plastic friend, Pokey—and even that relationship ended poorly, with Pokey being turned into a small puddle of goop when I left him too close to the stove. There was so much I didn’t know about the animals I was suddenly living with and I appeared able to learn only through painful and/or embarrassing events—never open an umbrella around a nervous horse; cats will pee in your work shoes because they are angry, bored, or just because they’re cats; the desire of a pig to cooperate with you is inversely related to how much you need the pig’s cooperation; and when it comes to treats, dogs generally are not the best judge of when they’ve had enough (regardless of the impact on their digestive system).

  I began to feel overwhelmed and resentful. I became, in the words of my wife and colleagues, “the complainer.” Then I met Skippy.

  Skippy is one of the animals in the novel, but he was a real dog—a small, black bundle of fur with a wise and handsome fox-like face. Skippy had been born with a badly malformed heart. He showed up at my wife’s veterinary practice one day when Amy and I were at something of a crossroads. We had been debating whether to have children and we had also just learned that Amy was ill and perhaps very ill. I was so frightened of the idea of kids—that I wouldn’t know what to do, that something would go wrong, that I would fail them somehow. The idea that my wife also was sick put my anxiety over the top. Fear is paralyzing; it closes your heart to all things—good and bad.

  My wife operated on Skippy, but she couldn’t fix him. She could only give him some additional time. We believed that Skippy likely would be dead within the year. No one wants a dog with that kind of lifespan, so he came home to us. That turned out to be a very good day.

  We were blessed to have Skippy in our lives for three years. He used his time well—unafraid, present, loving, funny, loyal. He was a small dog, but he didn’t live a small life. He helped us laugh at ourselves and then with each other with joy when we found out Amy was going to be okay.

  But eventually, the day came when Skippy looked at us with those proud and intelligent eyes and we couldn’t escape the fact that he was in pain. It was time to end his pain. Skippy died in my arms. I depressed the syringe that released the pink fluid that finally put his heart to rest. I needed to do that for him. I wanted to spare my wife the burden of one more soul.

  When it was over, I was surprised at the depth of the loss I felt. The only way I can explain it is to tell you that something deep within me shifted. I realized I was so grateful for every minute with Skippy and wouldn’t have traded the time with him for anything in the world, even though that time ended too soon. Then I understood that this was Skippy’s last gift to me. By taking his life he taught me how important the act of living really is and how limited by fear I had become. The idea of having children suddenly wasn’t so overwhelming. Without that little black dog I don’t know if I ever would have made the leap of faith that brought me my two wonderful daughters.

  I have come to believe in the power of animals. I believe they can heal, teach, and push us to be better people. I now live with twenty-nine creatures of different shapes and sizes and not a day goes by without learning something from them. I wanted to show Amy that I had started to understand the wonderful gift she had given me and also the blessing she brought to all those in her care, so I wrote her this story. After she read it, Amy thought the story might have meaning for others who both love their animals and struggle with the reality that we lose them too soon, so she encouraged me to share it. That was how the journey that is Unsaid began.

  We also wanted to do something more. To honor the animals we have known, we started a not-for-profit animal sanctuary organization called Finally Home to help lost, abused, and abandoned animals (www.finallyhomeanimalsanctuary.org). A portion of the author proceeds from the book is going to that entity.

  Was my experience with Skippy unique? This is the best part. The more readers I speak with, the more I learn that so many people who have loved and chosen to share their lives with an animal have an equally compelling story about how that animal has changed their lives. I can’t believe this is just coincidence. I love that. It makes me believe in the inertia of good things.

  In the novel, Helena says that animals were put here to help us redeem ourselves. I believe she is right.

  If you would like to share your story with me, I’d enjoy hearing from you. I can be reached on my Facebook author page at www.facebook.com/neilabramsonauthor or via e-mail at countenancewrite@aol.com.

  Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  Unsaid is about the healing power of animals. Have you had any personal experiences where an animal has helped you heal? Physically? Emotionally? Spiritually?

  In the novel, one of the characters points out that there is a distinction between “unspoken” and “unsaid.” Do you think there is a difference? What is it?

  What characters in the book have left things “unsaid” when we first meet them? What remains “unsaid” by the end of the novel?

  In the novel, Helena is unable to move on after she dies. Do you believe that her continued presence is voluntary or involuntary? In what way? What is the mechanism for her final release?

  The novel ends with the word “Amen.” Why do you think the author chose that word?

  The novel points out an ever-present tension between specieism and anthropomorphism. Is anti-specieism always anthropomorphic? Is anti-ant
hropomorphism always speciest?

  Is there an ethical way to use animals in invasive science research? What if the research causes the death of the animal?

  Which characters in the novel are motivated by rejection? Which are motivated by the fear of rejection?

  Cindy is limited in her ability to communicate with humans. In what ways are the human characters limited in their ability to communicate? What has caused these limitations?

  Does Clifford’s communication impairment result in his understanding more or less about the other characters? What does your answer lead you to conclude about the relationship between speech and understanding?

  At the end of the novel, David insists that he be the one to inject the euthanasia solution that ends his dog’s life. Have you ever made that request? Would you consider doing so?

  Many of the human characters in the book experience grief. Do you believe that animals experience grief? Have you ever witnessed an animal displaying grief?

  One of the themes of the book is that meaning only comes from juxtaposition and dissonance. If you could choose, would you “live small” in a numb and painless existence or seek meaning and purpose even though the price of that understanding is pain?

  How would the story have been different if narrated by Clifford? If narrated by David?

  Praise for

  Unsaid

  “UNSAID is an extraordinary story of animals, mortality, and the power of love. I found myself captivated by the world of this book. It will make you remember, rethink, and rejoice in every meaningful relationship you’ve ever had. Everyone needs to read this novel.”

  —Garth Stein, author of the international bestseller, The Art of Racing in the Rain

  “Rarely has a novel captured so movingly the deep bonds between people and the animals that share their lives… How each of these vivid characters finds a way to let go and move on is at the heart of this entrancing tale.”