Heal My Heart

After an accident that sent her life reeling and becoming half-paralyzed, she learns to move on, to put her father's death behind her and look forward to new tomorrows---because of two special dogs.

I would never forget that fateful day when the drive that was supposed to be taking me to the shelter took me to an entirely different road�"a wheelchair-bound, fatherless one.

When my mother struggled to cope with our new responsibilities, I couldn’t help but feel she blamed me for the loss.  But it was hard to accuse her of such a thing when I felt the same�"because, if I hadn’t been all fired up and excited to get a new dog, this never would have happened.  If I hadn’t been pushing and begging my parents to get me a new dog, the truck wouldn’t have sped up the highway and rammed into our car, shattering it to pieces.

Sometimes, I wish I had gone along with my dad.

But I knew I have to help my mother, because if nobody did, her life would crumble.  She’s too young to die, being only thirty-six.  My father was too young to die�"he was only thirty-seven.

That was a year ago.

“You should consider getting a dog now,” my mother urged.  “Remember how much you loved dogs?  Remember the times you insisted on going to the shelter to help out?  Remember when you came back home with a pack of strays trailing you because you were leading them with beef jerky, and asked us if we could keep the dogs?”

I didn’t remember.

Give up, I thought bitterly.  It’s never going to be the same again.

When I struggled to wheel myself outside, insisting that my mother had better things to do, I saw the many pairs of eyes boring into me.  Sometimes there was sympathy glistening in those eyes, but other times people just turn away.  And that’s when it clicks into my mind�"nobody wants to be friends with a handicapped person like me.

School is even more of a nightmare.

Since the beginning of time, I wasn’t the most likeable person in class, and now I know for sure that I never will be.  The day I was deemed fit to go to school, I had reluctantly rolled into the building and down the hall, trying my best to ignore the stares and the gasps from the students surrounding me.  When I wheeled into the classroom, I expected the worst�"but to my relief and embarrassment, there were only a few gasps and the occasional whispers of, “Are you okay?”

Now I figured everyone’s tired of helping me, especially because I was and always will be the least popular person in the whole entire school.  Even my teachers, who had shown considerable patience from the day I came back half-paralyzed, are, as I saw it, beginning to get worn out.  But honestly, I don’t blame them.  While my arms are capable of moving, there have been times where I take longer than others to reach objects since I can’t lean forward properly.  Of course, during gym class (or in other words, Physical Education), I assumed everyone was relieved that they didn’t have to take in the worst soccer player in our grade.

The day someone kicked a ball in my face and broke my nose was the day my mother declared firmly, “You’re getting a service dog.”

Of course, I was horrified at the thought of owning a dog.  How can I care for an animal that had caused so much pain, so much suffering, and so much loss?  I had protested, but my mother had her mind set and there was no point in trying to change her mind.

A few days later we drove to the animal shelter�"the same one, to my disgust, that my father had driven me to (or attempted to do so) before he died.

“Handicapped?” one of the volunteers had piped up, looking at me and smiling sympathetically.  “Maybe getting an official service dog would be best, but�"”

“We’re here to pick a dog, and that’s been something my daughter wanted to do for a long time,” she answered.  Looking at the other volunteer who had come, she asked with a smile, “Do you know of any dog that might prove to be useful for her?”

No dog will be useful! I wanted to scream.  I don’t want a dog!

“It won’t be guaranteed,” the volunteer, whose name was Jeremiah, said carefully, “but there are a few in the back who might fit your needs and hers.”  He glanced down at me and I glared back.  I swore I saw what might have been amusement in his eyes.

Reluctantly, I followed my mother and Jeremiah�"the other volunteer had long gone to who-knows-where�"to the place where they keep the ‘un-adoptables’.  He doesn’t seem to notice my cold stare that sweeps through the cages of dogs.  Huh.  Try to make me choose one.  I’m going home empty-handed.

While the other dogs jumped up and start barking with their tails wagging�"even though I had long since lost interest of canines, it didn’t mean I couldn’t tell that they were either old or needed special care�"there were two in particular that caught my attention.  Though I struggled to keep my gaze away, it was as if there was some sort of a magnetic force that drew me to them.

To my mother’s delight, I gingerly wheeled myself over to gaze at the pen that held the two dogs.  The first was a fawn-colored, elderly pit bull, and the second was what looked like a scruffy, dirty cream-colored terrier mix.  Despite the fact that pit bulls have been bred as fighting dogs and, in my experience, terriers are often yappy, the two hadn’t barked once.

Noticing my interest in the two, Jeremiah informed me, “The pit bull’s name is Conner, and the Westie mix is Kela.  When we found the two in the streets, they were running around dodging cars like experts until they made it to the sidewalk.”

Peering into their glittering eyes, I saw a spark, deep in both of their eyes as they gazed up at me hopefully.  Then, through this silent, wordless exchange of emotions, the pit bull’s tail began to thump against the floor and the terrier stood up slowly, her eyes seeming to glow.  And that was when the pieces of my shattered heart began to sew itself back together.

Opening the door to the pen, I held open my arms, tears pricking my eyes.  Both dogs leaped to their paws and, just barely being able to contain their happiness that shone in those black orbs, they padded slowly up to me.  Conner stood up on his hind legs and placed his paws on my thighs.  Kela, with a flying leap, scrambled into my lap and snuggled down.  The two of them then gazed up at me as if saying, I’ve chosen, and I’m home.

As I hugged them both, I began to cry.

Behind me, I heard my mother weeping and choke out between tears, “She cried.  She hasn’t cried for a year!” And, after a moment, she cried out with joy after dabbing at her eyes, “She hugged a dog.  My daughter hugged a dog!”

It was all coming back to me.

I remembered the time I loved dogs.

I remembered insisting going to the shelter everyday.

And I remembered leading a pack of stray dogs home with beef jerky.

“We’re taking them home, mom,” I said.  “We’re taking them home.”

 

I no longer have to ask for help when reaching things I can’t reach when in my wheelchair.  To my classmates’ delight, Conner and Kela accompany me to school now, trotting alongside me with such loyalty it would take a lot of persuading before somebody believed you that they were once strays.

Now they receive special assistant dog training, and they perform each task flawlessly.  They learned to come when called�"but that didn’t take a long time to master.  They learned not to eat suspicious looking things on the floor, unless told to.  They learned all the basics for obedience, and a bunch of other tricks to boot.

At school, they stick by my side and politely tolerate the students who crowd around them and start petting them eagerly.  Instead of being the kid in the corner, I’m the kid with the awesome dogs.  The teachers smile as Conner fetches a ruler from the basket in the corner for math, and when Kela helps me pick up objects I’ve dropped.  During recess, the pit bull and the mongrel�"who were about to be scheduled to be euthanized before I arrived at the shelter�"play fetch with the other kids and perform tricks.  In the cafeteria, when I have to buy lunch, Conner stands up on his hind legs and hands the cashier the money, much to everyone’s amazement and glee.

It turns out Jeremiah goes to the same school as I do�"but in the high school, since he’s only seventeen.  We had become fast friends and I often see him in the shelter afterschool and on the weekends when I bring my dogs to visit�"and attempt to help.

I’m not the shell of my former self anymore�"I’m back, revived from the dead by those two pairs of soulful black eyes, peering out at me from inside their pen.

And when I dream, I see my father, smiling and hugging them�"my dogs�"then looking straight at me.  He beams, and I see the pride and happiness that is glowing in his eyes when he says, “Thank you.”

 

~Fin~

Author's Note

This story isn't real, but I hope I made it realistic enough! No, I certainly haven't been in a wheelchair, I haven't been in an car crash, and I sure haven't lost my dad. But I sure love dogs, and it would be great if I had a dog working as a therapy dog! Hope you like the story!!!!