my kids.
With my children gone, all that I had left of real importance to me was my work. I wanted to finish as much of it as could before my time ran out. I saw Clare less often, and other than spending time with my friends Peter and Lawrence, I did not do all that much socializing. I was slowly closing in on myself—isolated, sick, and lonelier than ever.
My doctor was monitoring me more closely but was offering little in the way of long-term hope.
“Things are going pretty much the way that we expected,” he would say. “Don’t give up yet. I’ve arranged for you to see aspecialist in a few weeks, and I’ve sent your records off to some other experts in the field to see if they have any ideas.”
“Are there any changes in the timeline?” I asked.
“I can’t really say,” he replied.
I had always assumed that Mossy had taken Feldspar with her when she left Vancouver with the kids. Approximately 10 weeks after she had gone, I received a bill in the mail. It was from a local veterinarian whom I did not know. The cover letter read something like:
“As per your instructions, the Cairn terrier, Feldspar, was kept in our kennel for two months. You had specified that you were going to attempt to have him adopted within that time frame, but if he was not picked up by the designated date, he was to be euthanized. Enclosed you will find a bill for his boarding, euthanization, and body disposal.”
I was stunned. Felfy had been on death row for two months and I hadn’t known it. I still don’t know if not telling me about Feldspar’s whereabouts was an oversight, since the dog was never important to Mossy, or whether it was an act of cold, deliberate vengeance to kill my dog—I mean, the kids’ dog—and send me the bill.
I sat there at the table in my little apartment looking at the veterinarian’s demand for payment. I was in a state of shock. After a bit I was surprised to see that my right hand was gently stroking the piece of paper, much the way that I habitually stroked the head of Feldspar on those rare occasions when we were alone together.
I felt swamped with emotions. I should have bonded more closely with Felfy. I should have given him a voice. I should have checked up on where he was. I should saved him from his cruel fate. I should have … I should have …
I looked back down at the table. There were wet spots on the veterinarian’s invoice. I was crying. For the first time since the doctor had given me the bad news, for the first time since I separated from my wife, for the first time since my children were taken from me, I was crying. Feldspar, the dog that I would not permit to become mine, was gone. Felfy was dead and I was dying, too.
C HAPTER 6
CONVERSATIONS WITH WOLF
Sometimes, miracles happen and restore your faith in God, science, kismet, or dumb luck. Eight months into my death sentence, I was still trying to carry on as if nothing had changed except my living arrangements when I got a phone message from my doctor asking me to come to his office as soon as possible. I had a flash of panic. Had one of the seemingly millions of tests that I had been taking shown up worse than expected? Was the clock now ticking faster? Was my time shorter than I thought?
A few hours later, I was sitting in front of him. He had a legal-sized envelope in his hands and the postage on it indicated that he had received this in the mail from someplace in Canada. He pulled a few sheets of paper out of it, glanced at them, and then made full eye contact with me (a good sign?).
“Stan, I’ve been in touch with a few people about possible courses of treatment for you. I haven’t had anything promising come out of those inquiries, but something else has turned up. A medical researcher in Toronto is doing research on the effectiveness of a fairly radical method of treatment for certain rare but serious problems. He is looking for people suffering from thoseconditions who might become participants in
With my children gone, all that I had left of real importance to me was my work. I wanted to finish as much of it as could before my time ran out. I saw Clare less often, and other than spending time with my friends Peter and Lawrence, I did not do all that much socializing. I was slowly closing in on myself—isolated, sick, and lonelier than ever.
My doctor was monitoring me more closely but was offering little in the way of long-term hope.
“Things are going pretty much the way that we expected,” he would say. “Don’t give up yet. I’ve arranged for you to see aspecialist in a few weeks, and I’ve sent your records off to some other experts in the field to see if they have any ideas.”
“Are there any changes in the timeline?” I asked.
“I can’t really say,” he replied.
I had always assumed that Mossy had taken Feldspar with her when she left Vancouver with the kids. Approximately 10 weeks after she had gone, I received a bill in the mail. It was from a local veterinarian whom I did not know. The cover letter read something like:
“As per your instructions, the Cairn terrier, Feldspar, was kept in our kennel for two months. You had specified that you were going to attempt to have him adopted within that time frame, but if he was not picked up by the designated date, he was to be euthanized. Enclosed you will find a bill for his boarding, euthanization, and body disposal.”
I was stunned. Felfy had been on death row for two months and I hadn’t known it. I still don’t know if not telling me about Feldspar’s whereabouts was an oversight, since the dog was never important to Mossy, or whether it was an act of cold, deliberate vengeance to kill my dog—I mean, the kids’ dog—and send me the bill.
I sat there at the table in my little apartment looking at the veterinarian’s demand for payment. I was in a state of shock. After a bit I was surprised to see that my right hand was gently stroking the piece of paper, much the way that I habitually stroked the head of Feldspar on those rare occasions when we were alone together.
I felt swamped with emotions. I should have bonded more closely with Felfy. I should have given him a voice. I should have checked up on where he was. I should saved him from his cruel fate. I should have … I should have …
I looked back down at the table. There were wet spots on the veterinarian’s invoice. I was crying. For the first time since the doctor had given me the bad news, for the first time since I separated from my wife, for the first time since my children were taken from me, I was crying. Feldspar, the dog that I would not permit to become mine, was gone. Felfy was dead and I was dying, too.
C HAPTER 6
CONVERSATIONS WITH WOLF
Sometimes, miracles happen and restore your faith in God, science, kismet, or dumb luck. Eight months into my death sentence, I was still trying to carry on as if nothing had changed except my living arrangements when I got a phone message from my doctor asking me to come to his office as soon as possible. I had a flash of panic. Had one of the seemingly millions of tests that I had been taking shown up worse than expected? Was the clock now ticking faster? Was my time shorter than I thought?
A few hours later, I was sitting in front of him. He had a legal-sized envelope in his hands and the postage on it indicated that he had received this in the mail from someplace in Canada. He pulled a few sheets of paper out of it, glanced at them, and then made full eye contact with me (a good sign?).
“Stan, I’ve been in touch with a few people about possible courses of treatment for you. I haven’t had anything promising come out of those inquiries, but something else has turned up. A medical researcher in Toronto is doing research on the effectiveness of a fairly radical method of treatment for certain rare but serious problems. He is looking for people suffering from thoseconditions who might become participants in
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