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All Rights Reserved
As Published in the STA "On-Track" Newsletter
It is cold in the waiting area. Like a roomful of nervous expectant fathers and mothers, we pace back and forth. Some talk in muted tones, old friendships are renewed while most simply jump into and out of conversations and collectively worry. The growing crowd of family members and friends mills around, attempting to stay warm, waiting for the inevitable. Standing in the cold, we offer all we have, words of encouragement, a hug, a firm handshake or a simple sedate nod of the head.
As I look across a field, I can see a line of cars, each with their headlights on, approaching. Somehow it reminds me of a long and solemn funeral procession as they wind their way down the narrow country black-top road. We are within a stones throw of a historic place where legions have fought and died in support of their friends and family. The area surrounding us is littered with historical monuments expounding the encampments, fortifications and battles which have taken place.
To the south, a mile or so away, a grand battleship from another era, floats at anchor. Near it, a limestone monolith soars over 500 feet into the crystal blue sky. To our left, on top of a nearby hill, four well maintained cemeteries speak of the very personal battles which have been lost or won. A different type of battle will be waged here today.
Most of us have been here before. Either for ourselves, a family member, or to give what support we can to a friend. This place seems to occupy a special place in our minds. It tugs on our heartstrings and beckons us to come, to bind together, and wait. In good times and bad, no matter the outcome of the procedures or operations, we gravitate back. For those few that this is their first visit, I know, it will not be their last. This place, almost a shrine, draws us to it whenever we are in need.
As we mature, we seem to make the journey to this place more and more frequently. I have never come here and really felt alone. Today is no different, surrounded by friends and soon to be friends, we wait. There had been nine scheduled for the operation today, but the specialists have already notified us of the loss of one. That one, from a city far to the north, could wait no longer and had been given the operation only a week ago. Now there were eight, and their friends, waiting, worrying.
As the cars passed, I scanned the interior for that lone familiar face. As children, we look to a mother figure for help, as an adult, I seek out her guidance. Even though I have not yet seen her, I know she will arrive. She, like I, cannot stay away. This operation is for a member of our family. My thoughts are elsewhere, to a earlier time, to another crisp December morning standing in this waiting area. That time the waiting and worrying was for me. I am suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of contentment and deja vu. I know we'll pull through this one too.
Far away in thought, I hear someone calling my name. My mind slips back to the present and someone, a first timer, asks when the waiting will be over. I ponder the question trying to distinctly phrase my reply. I respond that the operation should be completed and we should know the outcome in about four hours. After a year or so of procedures and tests and just waiting to get on the list, the actual operation only takes a few minutes.
I turn and see that Mom has arrived. I hug her and lie that it will turn out ok. We've both been through this before. We have made all the arrangements, and done everything that was possible for us to do. Now it was up to someone else.
They come in their long coats. Their clipboards stuffed full of charts, writings and test procedures. One of them says they're ready to get the operation started. Wait, can't we have just a few more minutes? Can we talk to her just one last time? They lead her by us. We squeeze her hand, offer words of encouragement and wave as she walks away. Towards the beginning of that one hundred and eighty foot corridor where the preliminary surgery will be performed. She is followed by the team of specialists, reviewing their notes and speaking in hushed tones.
I put my arm around Mom's shoulder, partly to steady her but mostly to steady me. Together we try desperately to hold back the tears. It is out of our hands, all we can do is to stand here, holding on to each other, and watch while silently mumbling a prayer. We hold our breath as she enters the corridor and the procedure begins.
About three minutes later, someone muttered that this was like "watching paint dry". Outraged at the intrusion, my first thought was to throttle him, but I thought, he may be right. They are so steady and methodical, just plodding along. Working as a team. Never in a hurry, always double-checking every possibility. Executing the procedure as specified. Never cutting too far, or stopping too soon. This is precision surgery.
It continues for what seemed like hours but in reality was only a few minutes. We could only think of the multitude of concerns which could be going through her head. We could only hope that she had truly learned those three key points we have tried to teach her. Believe and it will happen, trust and follow wherever it may lead you and always give something back for those that may follow behind you.
In less than nine minutes it was over. The procedure was a success! Mom cried and I removed my glasses and wiped a speck of dirt from my eye. We ran to the recovery area to be with our "little girl" and our "grandson". Mom hugged Carol and Carl while I, like a proud papa, whipped out the camera and snapped off numerous photographs. Carol had believed and now she and our grandson Carl had their tracking degree!
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Carol Hebert of Houston, TX and "Carl", Hebert's Rescue Times Two, Rottweiler (d), received their TD (Tracking Dog title) at the San Jacinto Kennel Club TD/VST Test on Sunday, December 10, 1995. Carl was one of seven of the eight entries who passed their TD test on a cold, windy morning at the San Jacinto Battlegrounds. Judges for the TD test were Sandy Ganz and Linda Bryan.
Carl is a loved and loving rescue dog who lives with Carol, her husband Wayne. Carl shares his home with "Trixie", another Rottweiler working on a T.D., "Chelsea" a Dachshund and "Nachen" a Miniature Dachshund. They train with Nita Chambers ("Mom") and Ed Presnall. Ironically, one year to the day earlier, Carol had watched Ed receive two T.D.'s in the same field.
© 2003-1996 - Ed Presnall - All Rights Reserved