An Extra Ten Minutes

佚名/Anonymous

每周一下午兩點，我和博都要去密爾沃基東北部的銀泉康復中心，為住在那里的老人們進行一小時的寵物治療。我們穿過走廊走向接待室，與每位相遇的人打招呼。在接待室里休養(yǎng)的人都會過來愛撫博——一只活潑可愛的德國短毛獵犬。他今年10歲，體重99磅，很招人喜歡。你們很難想象，8年前，這只狗被打得傷痕累累，來到我家門階上，一見到人就嚇得仰躺在地，四腳朝天，抬起腿來就撒尿，直到人們撫摸他，柔聲細語地安慰他，他才會有安全感。

我們初次拜訪康復中心，路經淡黃色的1號走廊時，從112號房間里傳出一位老人激動的聲音，帶著濃重的德國口音：“瑪，瑪，來了一條德國狗！這里，有條德國狗！”

隨即，一位皺紋滿面、約6英尺高的白發(fā)瘦高老人出現(xiàn)在門口，他張開有力的雙臂，伸出大手，邀請我們進去。“我是查理，這是我的妻子埃瑪。請進，請進。”

博聽到查理友好、熱情的聲音，身子立刻激動地晃個不停，擺出貼近人大腿的姿勢，等著人愛撫他，查理立即滿足了他的愿望。我們進了屋，看見有著紫羅蘭色頭發(fā)的埃瑪坐在床上，她80多歲了，雖然瘦弱但精力充沛。她笑著用手拍打床，只拍了一下，拴著皮帶、向來順從的博就跳上床，躺在她的身邊，舔她的臉。查理告訴我們，“二戰(zhàn)”期間他倆從德國移民到英國，不得不忍痛割愛，把德國短毛獵犬馬克斯留在那里。說到這里，埃瑪滿眼淚水。查理說，博長得和馬克斯簡直一模一樣。

隔壁114房住的是七十多歲的老太太凱瑟琳，幾個月前她就不跟別人說話了，近一個月以來她都坐在輪椅上，始終處于緊張性精神分裂狀態(tài)。任何關心、擁抱、談心或陪伴都無法打動她。我和博走進她的房間時，床邊的小燈亮著，遮陽窗簾拉著，她背對著我們，低頭垂肩坐在輪椅上，面朝看不到任何風景的窗子。

博用套著他的皮帶拽著我向前走去。我還沒來得及蹲到凱瑟琳面前，博就已經站在她的左側，并把頭靠在她的膝蓋上。我拉了把椅子坐在她跟前并向她問好，但她沒有反應。我和博在那里坐了15分鐘，而凱瑟琳一言未發(fā)，一動不動。這讓我很吃驚，而令我更吃驚的是，博把長長的下巴搭在凱瑟琳的膝蓋上，竟一動不動地站了整整15分鐘。

你要是了解博，就會知道他為得到一次愛撫，能等上10秒鐘就已經很難得了。但這次是個例外，他把頭貼在凱瑟琳的膝蓋上，和她一樣僵在那里。與這個毫無生氣的女人在一起讓我感到極不舒服。一到兩點半，我就匆忙地說“再見”，然后站起身來，拉著不愿離開的博往外走。

我問一位護士，為什么凱瑟琳會得這種緊張性精神分裂癥，她告訴我：“我們也不知為什么。有時候老人被家人嫌棄，他們就會得這種病，我們只能盡力讓他們感到舒心。”

眼前浮現(xiàn)出所有能使我幸福生活的善良的人和動物，而后又消失了。我能想象得到凱瑟琳此刻的心情：孤單、煩亂、絕望，甚至被人遺忘。我決心找尋一種方法去讀懂她的心。

從那以后，每周一我和博去接待室時，都會特意去112房探視查理和埃瑪，還要去114房陪伴凱瑟琳。每次都如此——查理揮手邀我們進屋，埃瑪拍床等博去舔她，兩人對此總是不亦樂乎。然后我們去凱瑟琳的房間——她總是無精打采地坐在那里，除了還有呼吸外，幾乎沒有一點兒其他的生命跡象。

每次我都試著和凱瑟琳說話，可她一直沒反應。我逐漸失去了興致，我不甘心只是跟她待在一起。博卻一如既往，每次探訪凱瑟琳，博都會“坐禪”15分鐘，教我如何“陪伴”凱瑟琳。

第四次去康復中心時，我打算繞過凱瑟琳的房間，可是博卻有自己的主意，他把我拽了進去，跟前幾次一樣，他把頭搭在她的膝蓋上，待在她的左側。我默許了，可是心里想著那天下午晚些時候的商務會談，因此我決定把陪凱瑟琳的時間從以往的15分鐘縮短為5分鐘。我沒吭聲，只是默默地坐在那里，一門心思想著即將開始的會談。凱瑟琳肯定沒有注意，也不會在意。可是我起身要拽走博的時候，他卻紋絲不動。

接下來，奇跡發(fā)生了——凱瑟琳把手放到了博的頭上，沒有別的舉動，只是她的手。博既沒有像往常那樣用鼻子蹭，也沒有越發(fā)用力地搖晃身子，他仍然紋絲不動，像雕塑一樣站在那里。

我又坐了下來，心中有說不出的震驚。隨后在那寶貴的10分鐘里，我感受著凱瑟琳的手和博的頭之間那種生命之源的溝通。兩點半時，時鐘響了，我們的15分鐘到了，此時凱瑟琳的手緩慢地移回膝上，博也轉身走出房間。

那次探訪已經過去了10年，博在8年前因中風死在我的懷里。愛有多種表達方式，每一次我因對某人感到失望而準備離開時，都會想起博對凱瑟琳和對我那堅貞不渝的愛。既然博能有耐心多待10分鐘，那么我堅信我也能。

On Monday afternoons at two o'clock， Beau and I would arrive at the Silver Spring Convalescent Center on Milwaukee's northeast side of town for an hour of pet therapy with the seniors who lived there. We'd walk the hallways greeting everyone on our way to the hospitality room， where residents would come to pet Beau and bask in the adoration of this beautiful， happy， ten-year-old， ninety-nine-pound Doberman pinscher. You'd never know this was the same dog that arrived at my doorstep eight years earlier so beaten， scarred and scared that as soon as he made eye contact with you， he'd lie down on his back with his feet up in the air and pee until you petted and soothed him into feeling safe.

On our first visit， as we walked through the canary-yellow Hallway One， I heard an elderly man's excited voice， thick with a German accent， streaming out of room 112. "Ma， Ma， the German dog is here？ The German dog is here？"

No sooner did I hear the voice than a wrinkle-faced， six-foot-tall， white-haired pogo stick of a man was greeting us at the door， swooping his big， open hand and strong arm across the doorway， inviting us in， "I'm Charlie. This is my wife， Emma. Come in， come in."

When Beau heard Charlie's friendly， enthusiastic voice， his entire body went into his customary wagging frenzy and lean against your thigh position， waiting for a petting， which was immediately forthcoming from Charlie. As we walked into the room， a frail but lively eighty， violet-haired Emma sat in bed， smiling， patting her hand on the bed. All she had to do was pat once， and Beau， leashed and always obedient， was up on the bed lying down beside her， licking her face. Her eyes were full of tears as Charlie told us that he and Emma had immigrated to the United States from Germany during World War II and had to leave their beloved Doberman， Max， behind. Max， according to Charlie， was the spitting image of Beau.

The next door， room 114， was home to Katherine， a woman in her seventies who had stopped talking for a few months earlier and had been living in a catatonic state in her wheelchair for the past month. No amount of love， hugs， talking or sitting had been able to stir her. When Beau and I walked into her room， a small light was on next to her bed and the shades were pulled. She was sitting in her wheelchair， her back toward us， slouched over， facing the viewless window.

Beau was pulling ahead of me with his leash. Before I could get around to kneeling down in front of her， he was at her left side， with his head in her lap. I pulled a chair up in front of her， sat down and said hello. No response. In the fifteen minutes that Beau and I sat with Katherine， she never said a word and never moved. Surprising as that may be， more surprising was that Beau never moved either. He stood the entire fifteen minutes， his long chin resting on her lap.

If you knew Beau， you'd know that even ten seconds was an eternity to wait for a petting. Not here. He was as frozen as Katherine， head glued to her lap. I became uncomfortable with the lack of life in this woman. When the clock chimed 2：30 p.m.， I rushed to say good-bye， stood up and pulled the reluctant Beau out.

I asked one of the nurses why Katherine was catatonic. "We don't know why. Sometimes it just happens when elderly people have family who show no interest in them. We just try to make her as comfortable as possible."

All the wonderful people and animals who blessed my life flashed in front of my eyes， and then they were gone. I felt what I imagined Katherine must be feeling lonely， lost and forgotten. I was determined to find a way through to her.

Every Monday thereafter， Beau and I made our rounds to the hospitality room， stopping to make special visits in room 112 to visit Charlie and Emma， and in room 114 to sit with Katherine. Always the same response—Charlie waving us in and Emma patting the bed， waiting for Beau's licks， both so alive. And then on to Katherine， sitting desolately， no sign of life except for her shallow breathing.

Each visit I attempted to engage Katherine in conversation. No response. I grew more and more frustrated with Katherine， not content with just "being" with her. Yet here was Beau， meditative dog， teaching me how to "be" and love quietly， assuming "the position" for the fifteen minutes we sat at each visit.

On our fourth visit， I was ready to bypass Katherine's room， but Beau had other plans. He pulled me into Katherine's room and took his familiar pose on her left side， head on lap. I acquiesced， but since I had a business meeting later in the afternoon with which I was preoccupied， I decided to cut short our usual fifteen minutes with Katherine to five. Instead of talking， I remained quiet， focusing inwardly on my upcoming meeting. Surely she'd never notice or care. As I stood up to walk out and began to pull Beau away， he wouldn't budge.

And then the most miraculous thing happened. Katherine's hand went up to the top of Beau's head and rested there. No other movement， just her hand. Instead of Beau's customary response of nose nuzzling and increased body wagging， he continued to stand like a statue， never moving from his spot.

I sat back down in silent shock， and for the next ten precious minutes， reveled in the stream of life flowing between Katherine's hand and Beau's head. As the clock chimed half-past two， marking the end of our fifteen minutes， Katherine's hand gently slid back into her lap， and Beau turned to walk out of the door.

It's been ten years since that visit and eight years since Beau died in my arms from a stroke. Love has many ways of showing its face. Each time I am ready to walk away from a person on whom I've given up， I am reminded of the power of Beau's loving persistence with Katherine and with me. If Beau can give an extra ten minutes， surely I can too.