Recently, I had to go out of town for three days, which meant leaving the family dog in the care of my husband. The dog took it badly. Normally quiet, poised and well-mannered, he had the doggy equivalent of a nervous breakdown--whining, moping, spewing and generally soiling all the once habitable spaces.
After 24 hours in canine hell, my husband called to say he couldn't go on this way--there was no safe place to step and the combined sounds of lamenting and wretching had become intolerable. He was considering, he said, putting both the dog and himself out of their mutual misery.
This, clearly, was a desperate situation, and it required a quick but workable solution. I got the dog on the phone (actually, I convinced my husband--who could now add humiliation to his list of grievances--to hold the phone up to the dog's ear). It seemed to me that the problem was that the poor animal had not been sufficiently prepared for the shock and sense of loss that would accompany my departure. So I explained things to him, in great detail. Though I was gone, I told the dog, I would be coming home soon. I felt certain that the dog took comfort in these words.
