12 Mar So Much Softness
We spent our Saturday in the open room of the emergency animal hospital, the kind with bright lights and stainless-steel tables arranged so everyone can move quickly when they need to.
The girls’ lop-eared bunny, Tatum, lay on the table, her breathing rapid, each small rise and fall visible. She had swallowed a treat and for a few long moments at home she struggled to pull air in. It was that sound that sent us out the door.
Ella and Emma stood beside her, their faces blotchy from crying. Emma was wearing only one sock. We left the house as we were. There wasn’t time to finish anything.
The veterinarian completed her exam and then lifted her eyes to the girls. She took in their faces before turning away. Instead of moving to the next task, she pulled a stool close and sat so she was level with them. She told them about her own bunny, how she adopted her and later learned there were seven baby bunnies on the way. She scrolled through photographs on her phone, small fluffy bodies and folded ears filling the screen. The girls leaned in. Their shoulders eased. Their breathing steadied.
Across the room, a veterinary assistant sat beside a woman curved around her dog on the couch. The woman’s shoulders moved with quiet sobs. The assistant stayed there.
The room hummed with motion, but again and again I saw helpers adjusting their pace to whoever was most shaken.
It was then that I found myself thinking about the orca named Tahlequah. Maybe you remember this story. She carried her dead calf for seventeen days, swimming more than a thousand miles. I remember the photographs of her lifting the small body each time it slipped beneath the surface. What surprised the scientists was the behavior of the rest of the pod. They slowed their pace to match hers. They did not swim ahead when she fell behind. Even when hunger would have urged them forward, they remained.
Under fluorescent lights, in a room arranged for speed, helpers pulled up stools. They took seats on couches. They stayed level with fear and grief.
By the time we left, we knew Tatum was going to be okay. The room continued behind us, bright and ready for whatever came next.
A room arranged for speed.
And still, so much softness.