Rebel

Rebel was a 17 year old wolfhound mix breed. There must have been much more “mix” to him as 17 years is just not an age the average wolfhound can reach. His owners, both in their 70s, had him his entire life. The wife told us most of her life history, including a wreck that lead to her spinal fusion, explaining her altered stance and gait. The husband struggled to breath through his emphysema-stricken lungs as he told me the history of the dog and held back tears. The told me of the people all over the country that were praying for Rebel, presumably people who have come to know them through social media.

The dog was in the back bedroom of their old single-wide home. The floors reminded me of the old trailer I called home as a child and also a similar home to that of my grandparents. The thin linoleum flooring was worn through in spots, the medium shag carpet stained and battered. The house smelled of a two lifetimes of cigarette smoke. The front door opened into the living room, back into a kitchen, a short hall, then a back bedroom. As we passed through the kitchen back to the bedoom to meet the patient, I couldn’t help but notice a giant stack of apple-pie snacks (like the McDonald’s apple pie boxes), an exposed pantry with boxes of mac-n-cheese, soups, potato chips, and all sorts of other non-perishables. I just got the sense these good people were barely getting by on their fixed income.

It must have been the spare bedroom as the bed was covered in canned goods, blankets, and laundry. The dog was lying in the floor in front of an open closet door. The paper-thin carpet was covered in throw rugs, moist from where he likely had soiled himself. They had been tending to him for weeks helping him get up and walk down the ramp out the front door. He was equally as aggressive towards them, most likely from his severe low-back and hip pain. He was not able to stand.

As I approached him, he turned to look in my direction. His eyes were hazy, that common hardened lens that happens to us all as we age. I spoke softly to him, but he bared his teeth, snapped toward me, and growled before I tried to reach toward him. I asked my assistant to join me with a slip leash to put some traction on his neck so that I could safely get some sedation injected into the muscles of his hind limb.

He sedated beautifully – no sensation of my presence, just peacefully laying unconcious, feeling no pain or anxiety. As I was preparing to inject a leg vein to administer the euthanasia solution, the lady was standing behind me showing my assistant a scar on her arm where the dog bit her. I could only hear her, but through her tears, she says, “they might take my rebel flag, but they’ll never take my rebel scar.”

I paused for a second, looking down at the upward facing bevel of that 18 gauge, 1 inch needle and focused my eyes on it. My internal reaction was some combination of an eye-roll, sigh, and a snicker. She said it like she had said it before. We’re in the middle of a social upheaval surrounding race, again. Confederate statues are being demolished, confederate flags removed from state flags. I’m certain that she has been fueling up on the toxicity of our news outlets. Perhaps she truly has family ties to the 4 years of the confederacy’s existence in the 1860s that carry special meaning to her. No one is actually taking HER rebel flag, she can still buy one and fly it. I’m just curious to know what it means to her. It’s just history to me, I have no loyalties to it, no more than a swastika. Well, maybe I can stretch to appreciate the confederate flag – those people were fighting for their heritage, autonomy, rights – not just slavery. I can’t find anything positive to say about what a swastika represented. I’m still not even sure what the professional response might be. It just wasn’t the time, she was grieving. I opted to pretend I didn’t hear it and that it didn’t phase me, and proceeded to help Rebel pass peacefully.

The dog passed quickly and the couple were grateful for the compassion we extended. We placed him in a sleeping bag that he used when they camped with him years ago. We carried him to a wheelbarrow on the front porch and I wheeled him down the old ramp they use to get in and out of their home. I pushed him out to a grave their neighbor had dug for them, and positioned him gently into his resting place.

As we were leaving, the lady was sure to tell me about “the mexicans” down in the holler just across the road who are gone for 3 months at a time and she hears their dogs barking. I got the feeling that she wasn’t too fond of them. I responded with, “Maybe someone comes to look after the dogs while they’re gone. 3 months would be a long time to live without food.” “I sure hope you’re right”, she replied.

She is of the generation who experienced segregation. She likely had parents who taught superiority of her race, or taught her to be fearful or suspicious of people of color or foreign descent. There likely was no diversity in her town. She is not a bad person, but she has a very narrow view of the world. She is not unique among people deep in these Appalachian hollers, there are many who share her upbringing. Unfortunately, I still meet children, teenagers, and people in their 20s and 30s that have been influenced by their parents and grandparents and continue to think this way. There is some interesting sociological things to explore in Appalachia – if you have never read Hillbilly Elegy, I think the author does a decent job highlighting some of these things. Things like poverty, depression, teenage pregnancy, divorce, spousal abuse, alcoholism (and its new sick cousin: meth and opioid addiction), literacy, high-school dropout, and reliance on governmental assistance. These things certainly do not define Appalachia, but we do have some unmet needs in our communities, and we have people who feel trapped by their circumstances. I have experienced many of these things in my own family. I have also witnessed grit and determination and softening of hearts that has overcome obstacles and narrow-mindedness.

I admit, it is hard to see how to end some of the toxic ways of thinking. I believe we can chip away at it in little ways. It is slow work. Share your friends – that is, be the mutual friend that connects people. I love when people introduce me to their friends! I encourage you to share your friends of color, differing sexuality, differing religious views, etc. Come together around common interests – even if that interest is just being your friend! Connecting over a hobby, a favorite band, or a favorite restaurant helps to facilitate an opportunity to grown in friendship with new people to facilitate listening, learning, and normalizing those things that make us different and unique.

Be well, J.