Comet's Tale by Steven Wolf Page A

identified on an x-ray. All too often in recent years, my own macho upbringing was echoed by the very experts whose help I sought. Suck it up, pilgrim! Some health providers with real medical degrees thought that chronic pain was “all in your head.” Bones heal and nerves regenerate. This attitude was always summed up with the phrase, “I don’t see anything on the MRI.” If it can’t be identified and fixed, it doesn’t exist.
    The more enlightened medical practitioners recognized that injuries and trauma could impact the body in ways that are still not fully understood. Over time, constant severe pain can change the nervous system by affecting peripheral nerves. As it continues, this condition can change the spinal cord and affect different levels of the brain. Years of uncertainty and lack of a concrete treatment can depress a person to the point of contemplating suicide. Even a person like me.
    At the time, ending my life seemed like a reasonable plan. The doctors had stated that my problem could not be fixed. If my spine could not be repaired, I could never have my life back. If I couldn’t regain my health, Freddie would forever remain the family breadwinner. If I couldn’t be the person my daughters had grown to know and love, what was the point of going on? None. Within six months of being fired from my law firm, I had seen the logic of cashing in on my life insurance policy. It made total sense. Without hope, nothing else did.
    A war between my emotions and what passed for rational thought raged every minute of every day. Just when I would conclude that I was a born coward and grant myself permission to pull the plug, genes that had been passed on for generations would taunt, “What a baby! You goin’ to give up at the first sign of trouble?” That was always countered with a more studied argument. “You should at least leave your family with financial stability.” Detached, I would watch the drama play out at a distance. Every once in a while Freddie would telepathically detect something in the air, repeatedly calling me from work. “You aren’t acting right. You aren’t thinking of doing something stupid, are you?”
    â€œ What are you talking about? Of course I won’t do anything stupid. What do you think I am, crazy?” With that, I would hustle back to the mental movie, sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering what the outcome would be.
    By the time I moved to Sedona, I had already been in significant constant pain for three full years. I was continually juggling medications in search of the right cocktail to suppress the burning and cramping. I was furious at myself, my body, my former partners, and the unfairness of it all. I believe one reason Comet decided to come home with me that day in Flagstaff was that she knew I needed to cool down. Comet’s approach to life was entirely different from what I had been taught. She was not stoically enduring her painful memories, nor was she denying them. She definitely wasn’t fuming over them. No dog, not even Comet, would calmly accept a life of cruelty. But to fret about having been born a racing greyhound, riding in cages from track to track, and then being abandoned would have been futile. It would have wasted the time she had left. Comet seemed to understand that.
    With Comet more than other dogs, I was always asking myself if I was reading human motives into canine behavior. Yet I am convinced that dogs can think critically and recall past experiences. My daughters once adopted a sheltie named Chip whose former owner, a man, had abused him. Chip was unfailingly loyal to Freddie and the girls, but he wouldn’t give me or any other male the time of day. I know that Comet, too, thought about her past. I only had to watch her flinch whenever the breeze from an open window blew an interior house door shut. It wasn’t the noise that made her cringe; she wasn’t afraid