20 SPRING 2019
CULTURE
THE LAST TIME I CRIED WAS WHEN PATIENCE DIED—MY CAROLINA
DOG, MY FIRST BABY, MY CLOSE FRIEND. WE GOT HER IN 2002.
FOR MONTHS PAUL AND I HAD BEEN SEARCHING ALL OF SOUTHERN
CALIFORNIA FOR A DOG. WE FOUND HER TUCKED AWAY IN THE
CORNER OF THE POMONA HUMANE SOCIETY (PHS). SHE WAS SLEEPING
WHEN I FIRST SAW HER—THE LAST OF HER LITTER, THE RUNT. I KNEW I
HAD TO HAVE HER.
It took me a while to settle on a name for her,
because names, and the act of naming, are so
important to me and because none of the usual
names seemed to fit her. She was such a challenge
to train that I ended up naming her Patience; I
either had to name her that or take her back to
the PHS. For a long time, she was one destroyed
pair of shoes away from just that. But she wore
grooves in my heart, and soon there was no
letting her go.
But there we were, barely 10 years later, on the
cold, white tile of the veterinarian's floor. Her body
was so riddled with cancer she couldn't even lift
her head. So I sat with her (where else?), her head
cradled in my lap. I remembered her young—a
puppy, bounding down the pebbled steps outside
our apartment door every time I came home.
The vet injected the fatal dose, and I wept—no, I
wailed—as the last bit of life heaved from
her body.
The Haunting of Heaven
Halee Gray Scott, PhD
