Mr. B

Laurie and Mr. B

LOVE HEELS Picture me, depressed, bedraggled, a sorry wreck of a cancer patient with poor prospects and dark thoughts, drooping each Tuesday into my oncologist's office at 3:00, when a nurse would test my blood to determine whether my system could tolerate another chemo treatment. My red blood cell count had been plummeting for eight weeks. This particular Tuesday, I sat slumped in my chair awaiting word on whether I'd get a treatment. My oncologist burst through the exam room door, lab coat flapping behind him, waving my blood test results, yelling, "What have you done?" Oh crap, I thought. I'm doomed. I had already absorbed my share of evil news. The breast cancer had spread to my lymph nodes, and within weeks of this whack to the head, I took a whack to the heart when my sweet terrier Emma died in a freak accident. Dr. C. was so excited he didn't notice he was shouting in my face: "Your white blood cell count has nosedived. You red blood cells have skyrocketed. I've never seen anything like it. What have you done differently since last week?" Only one thing; I had rescued a dog. Mr. B. was a shaggy mutt with a heart-wrenching history. He had been found, an emaciated, flea-ridden puppy, cowering in a construction site. Restored to health, he was adopted by a man who was killed in a car accident, then bounced from foster home to foster home, most recently with an elderly couple, about to embark on a yearlong cruise. Shortly after Emma died, I had registered with a rescue operation and a few days after my last chemo treatment, I picked up Mr. B with his leash, his dog bowl and squeaky plush carrot. As we walked away from the elderly couple, I heard the wife say sadly to her husband, "He doesn't even look back." They'd had him for six months, and he'd apparently learned not to invest his heart in these transitory "homes" that kept taking him in. We got in the car, I kissed the top of his hairy head, and said, "Your forever home will be with me. You'll never have to find another." He licked my hand, not necessarily convinced, then settled himself in the passenger seat, facing forward to see what life was going to bring next. That night he behaved like a respectful guest, eager to know the rules of the house. He refused to jump up on the bed until I picked him up and put him there, petting him, scratching his butt and talking to him until he relaxed and we both fell asleep. I was in love. "That's IT!" said Dr. C, practically jumping up and down. "Here's the proof." He waved the lab results under my nose. "Look how love boosts the red blood cell count. I recommend it to all my patients. But I've never seen it work this well." All this happened 22 years ago; love saved both our lives.