What I Might Have Missed

Tonight was our third visit to Gilda's Club with Sadie, our collie who became a certified therapy dog this winter. It had been a long day, and I was tired. Lily was tired, too, although she would never admit it, and we had family over for dinner. It would have been so easy not to go, to stay home and finish more of the take-out food we'd ordered, have another glass of wine, put the girls to bed, early, lie on the couch for the rest of the night.

It's always so easy to do the easier thing. Although there are exceptions to these rules, in general it's easier to stay in than go out, lie down than get up, hang back than plunge in, judge than do, and on and on ad infinitum. But these days I am trying to pass over the easier, lazier choice whenever I can, even when it takes a Herculean effort just to say no the devil on my shoulder, who is sedentary, slothful and mean.

So I got Lily out of there, out of a home filled with food and people, into an unseasonably warm evening with a willing, vest-wearing, oblivious dog. We walked as fast as we could up the street to the brick building that houses Gilda's Club, down to the basement where the group sessions for grieving children are held.

Many of the usual suspects were there, both dogs and children, and Lily--whose devil seems prone mostly to whining, thus far--plunged right in. I hung back to take off my coat and was immediately approached by a small girl, who told me her name was Victoria and that she was almost nine years old. "Do you like to be called Vicki?" I asked. 

"No," she said. "My math teacher calls me that." 

"Okay," I said. "Victoria." I sat, Sadie lay down, and Victoria sat next to us, putting her arms around Sadie and petting her head. 

"Do you know why I'm here?" she asked, finally.

"Why?" I said. I knew we weren't supposed to initiate conversations with the kids about their experience, but this was the first time it had ever come up.

"My mother died," she said, continuing to pet Sadie, whose tail was thwacking against the rug in a pleased sort of way. I didn't say anything, just waited. "We have a black lab, but my mother's favorite dog was a collie. She had the movie Lassie, and it was the first movie we ever saw with her." She gestured across the room, where an even younger boy, who looked just like her, was playing with one of the other dogs. I suddenly knew I needed to speak or I would start to cry instead.

"Well, I'm really glad Sadie got to meet you," I said. "She knows when somebody really appreciates collies." Victoria nodded, and I closed my eyes tight, opened them, and watched her pet Sadie, just sit there and pet her, for the rest of the visit, as the other children and dogs mingled and played all around us. Motherless, fatherless children, with the exception of mine.

When it was time to go, I called Lily over and asked Victoria to hold Sadie's leash while I put on our coats.

"Will you be back next time?" she asked. 

You can count on it, Victoria. And from this point on, it will be the easiest decision I ever make.