(Note: One of the great things about working at a newspaper is being able to write a column. I wrote this column last year. My wife loves it — it's about our 7-year-old, Clay. Like I said, the kids, they inspire me. — MSC)
The six-year-old in front of me is crying.
Tears run freely from his large, brown eyes and form small patterns in the dirt on his face.
Cupped in his hands — dirty from several baseball games and at least one stint of digging holes in the back yard — is the entire sum of his wealth: $2.17
"Will this be enough?" he asks, struggling to choke back his tears. "Will this fix Lilly?"
Lilly is our beagle.
A goofy, floppy-eared creature who spends most of her time licking the people here at our Davis Court estate. The kids love Lilly. She sleeps with them, she plays with them, and - given the opportunity - she'd eat with them; she's part of the tribe of youngsters my wife and I have taken to raise.
Lilly also likes to run. And, for the record, she's good at it. Too good, in fact, because that's what got her in trouble. The other day the kids were heading out the front dor to play, and Lilly bolted through the door and high-tailed it down the street.
She'd been gone most of the day when the telephone rang. An Oklahoma City vet hospital had Lilly as a patient.
She'd been hit by a truck a few blocks from us. The car that hit her drove off. However, another driver saw the accident and took Lilly to the vet.
It didn't look good, the vet told us; her pelvis was shattered and surgery would be expensive - real expensive.
Our kids were devestated.
The littlest had quickly liquidated every asset he had and now stood before me, his smugged face pleading.
"Will this be enough to fix Lilly?"
Two dollars and seventeen cents. I felt very old, trying to come up with a way to explain that the surgery was just too expensive. In the distiance I heard the front door open.
My other two kids - a boy and girl - came rushing in with their cousin. They, too, had pooled their financial resources and even trekked through our neighborhood seeking donations to pay for our critically injured beagle.
Their funds, combined with those of the youngest, came to just over $35.
"That will help, won't it?" My daughter asked. "Do we have enough?"
Again, I'm struggling for words. I stammer and am almost overwhelmed by the pain on these four young faces.
My wife came to my rescue.
"Hey, guys," she said, softly. "Let me talk to your dad for a minute. We need to call the vet; why don't you go in your room and count your money one more time."
The kids scurried down the hall my wife led me by the arm to our bedroom.
"I spoke to the vet," she said, quietly. "Including the surgery, the drugs and everything it will cost about $2,000 to fix Lilly's butt."
Two grand. Jeeze.
That was huge. We'd planned a trip this year. I wanted a new digital camera. There were other bills. Christmas was just few months away. There's no way we can front that type of cash to fix a beagle's tush.
As we sit there talking, the youngest gently opened the bedroom door and moved to his mother's side. Sobbing, he tells his mom that he's been praying for Lilly and wants to know if the vet can make her better.
Inside my heart breaks. I understand his pain. I can feel it across the room. For the past 45 minutes I'd been trying to figure out a way to explain to him they we can't afford the surgery and Lilly would have to be put to sleep.
The words tumble out of me.
And then this small, slightly dirty six-year-old, asks me a question that shakes the foundation of everything I've ever stood for.
"Does this mean if somebody gets sick and it's 'spensive, you can't make them better?"
Those words - ask so gently and so sincerely - richoetted off my brain and cut into the very core of my heart.
As a former player in the political area I'd fought for the poor. I'd debated against proposals what would deny the needy of our state proper health care. I'd say a thousand times how life was priceless. I'd said that, no matter what, we as a society should take care of those who struggle the most..
Time and time again, I've said we were put on earth to look after it and our fellow man.
I heard my words again. They wrapped themselves around my heart and amplified a million times the question of my youngest son.
I gathered the kids together and told them we needed to have a family meeting. I could tell by each child's expression they expected the worst. Their tears had flowed freely and I knew each child was trying to build enough courage to face the death of their beloved pet.
"We'll fix the dog," I said quietly.
Nothing.
I repated my statement.
My wife - a wonderful, rational and loving human being - looked at me like I'd just gone insane. "Are you sure?" she said.
"Yeah..."
Three small faces beamed at me - their smiles illuminating the room. They raced outside and jumped in the car. "Hurry!" they pleaded. "Let's go see Lilly."
Crying, my wife look at me. Her soft, beautiful face wearing a huge question mark. "But I thought..." she started to say.
"I'm not going to tell those kids that money comes before life," I said. "I'm not going to tell them that we worry about costs first. They love that dog. If I have that put her down, I could never look them in the eye again."
It was right at that moment that I decided: all too often we throw aways things that need our help: people, cities, government and yes, even floppy-eared dogs.
Life is precious. Shouldn't we remember the commandment from the most compassionate man who ever walked the earth; that we love one another as we love ourselves.
In my opinion that includes floppy-eard dogs.
We spent six months nursing an Lilly back to health. And today, - complete with her steel butt - she still runs (not at fast, though) and barks at every butterfly and rain drop that passes her way.
My kids are a little older, but all three still nestle and love that silly beagle with all their hearts. My wife continues to smile - even when Lilly occasionally poops on the carpet.
And I now know what it feels like to see pure love and compassion.
A six-year-old with dirty hands and a floppy-eared dog taught me.
The six-year-old in front of me is crying.
Tears run freely from his large, brown eyes and form small patterns in the dirt on his face.
Cupped in his hands — dirty from several baseball games and at least one stint of digging holes in the back yard — is the entire sum of his wealth: $2.17
"Will this be enough?" he asks, struggling to choke back his tears. "Will this fix Lilly?"
Lilly is our beagle.
A goofy, floppy-eared creature who spends most of her time licking the people here at our Davis Court estate. The kids love Lilly. She sleeps with them, she plays with them, and - given the opportunity - she'd eat with them; she's part of the tribe of youngsters my wife and I have taken to raise.
Lilly also likes to run. And, for the record, she's good at it. Too good, in fact, because that's what got her in trouble. The other day the kids were heading out the front dor to play, and Lilly bolted through the door and high-tailed it down the street.
She'd been gone most of the day when the telephone rang. An Oklahoma City vet hospital had Lilly as a patient.
She'd been hit by a truck a few blocks from us. The car that hit her drove off. However, another driver saw the accident and took Lilly to the vet.
It didn't look good, the vet told us; her pelvis was shattered and surgery would be expensive - real expensive.
Our kids were devestated.
The littlest had quickly liquidated every asset he had and now stood before me, his smugged face pleading.
"Will this be enough to fix Lilly?"
Two dollars and seventeen cents. I felt very old, trying to come up with a way to explain that the surgery was just too expensive. In the distiance I heard the front door open.
My other two kids - a boy and girl - came rushing in with their cousin. They, too, had pooled their financial resources and even trekked through our neighborhood seeking donations to pay for our critically injured beagle.
Their funds, combined with those of the youngest, came to just over $35.
"That will help, won't it?" My daughter asked. "Do we have enough?"
Again, I'm struggling for words. I stammer and am almost overwhelmed by the pain on these four young faces.
My wife came to my rescue.
"Hey, guys," she said, softly. "Let me talk to your dad for a minute. We need to call the vet; why don't you go in your room and count your money one more time."
The kids scurried down the hall my wife led me by the arm to our bedroom.
"I spoke to the vet," she said, quietly. "Including the surgery, the drugs and everything it will cost about $2,000 to fix Lilly's butt."
Two grand. Jeeze.
That was huge. We'd planned a trip this year. I wanted a new digital camera. There were other bills. Christmas was just few months away. There's no way we can front that type of cash to fix a beagle's tush.
As we sit there talking, the youngest gently opened the bedroom door and moved to his mother's side. Sobbing, he tells his mom that he's been praying for Lilly and wants to know if the vet can make her better.
Inside my heart breaks. I understand his pain. I can feel it across the room. For the past 45 minutes I'd been trying to figure out a way to explain to him they we can't afford the surgery and Lilly would have to be put to sleep.
The words tumble out of me.
And then this small, slightly dirty six-year-old, asks me a question that shakes the foundation of everything I've ever stood for.
"Does this mean if somebody gets sick and it's 'spensive, you can't make them better?"
Those words - ask so gently and so sincerely - richoetted off my brain and cut into the very core of my heart.
As a former player in the political area I'd fought for the poor. I'd debated against proposals what would deny the needy of our state proper health care. I'd say a thousand times how life was priceless. I'd said that, no matter what, we as a society should take care of those who struggle the most..
Time and time again, I've said we were put on earth to look after it and our fellow man.
I heard my words again. They wrapped themselves around my heart and amplified a million times the question of my youngest son.
I gathered the kids together and told them we needed to have a family meeting. I could tell by each child's expression they expected the worst. Their tears had flowed freely and I knew each child was trying to build enough courage to face the death of their beloved pet.
"We'll fix the dog," I said quietly.
Nothing.
I repated my statement.
My wife - a wonderful, rational and loving human being - looked at me like I'd just gone insane. "Are you sure?" she said.
"Yeah..."
Three small faces beamed at me - their smiles illuminating the room. They raced outside and jumped in the car. "Hurry!" they pleaded. "Let's go see Lilly."
Crying, my wife look at me. Her soft, beautiful face wearing a huge question mark. "But I thought..." she started to say.
"I'm not going to tell those kids that money comes before life," I said. "I'm not going to tell them that we worry about costs first. They love that dog. If I have that put her down, I could never look them in the eye again."
It was right at that moment that I decided: all too often we throw aways things that need our help: people, cities, government and yes, even floppy-eared dogs.
Life is precious. Shouldn't we remember the commandment from the most compassionate man who ever walked the earth; that we love one another as we love ourselves.
In my opinion that includes floppy-eard dogs.
We spent six months nursing an Lilly back to health. And today, - complete with her steel butt - she still runs (not at fast, though) and barks at every butterfly and rain drop that passes her way.
My kids are a little older, but all three still nestle and love that silly beagle with all their hearts. My wife continues to smile - even when Lilly occasionally poops on the carpet.
And I now know what it feels like to see pure love and compassion.
A six-year-old with dirty hands and a floppy-eared dog taught me.
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