There are two waiting rooms at the Ottawa Veterinary Hospital, one of two such institutions in the city of Ottawa that operates a 24-hour emergency service. Move to the right and you're in the canine waiting room; the left is for felines, but people often don't pay heed, since it's just a kind of courtesy and they seat themselves wherever they fancy. When we entered the large canine waiting room opposite the large reception desk, there were two other couples seated there with their pets. One couple, grey-haired with a cat in a typical travel-cage, looked fit and urbane, the other pair were slightly younger in appearance but obese and clearly out of shape. With them was a very small Pomeranian mix.

The woman with the Pom, morbidly obese, but one of those thankfully cheerful types who immediately warms up a room of strangers with infectious friendliness, immediately began asking questions of us regarding our two little charges, nodding enthusiastically at all our responses to her queries, and it didn't take long before everyone was engaged in pleasant observations about how much our pets mean to our lives. The little Pom sat between the two overweight people who adored their pet. I watched as the obese woman laboriously lifted herself from the benchseat and waddled slowly over to the watercooler to draw water in a paper cup, then return with it to her husband and the little dog. And observed with incredulity as the small animal drank copiously, paused, then drank again, almost emptying the paper cup. Yes, said the woman smilingly, that little dog of theirs loves water and drinks constantly.

We sat chatting, relieving the tension by friendly exchanges, until all three of us couples was called almost simultaneously into separate examination rooms in the large interior pocketed with such rooms. The veterinarian who looked after us was a very short dumpy-looking woman who must have been in her early 60s, a motherly, sweet-faced woman who tenderly manipulated Jackie, looked closely at his surgical wound and informed us she would attempt to see if he would allow her to stitch the wound he had opened, with just an local application of anaesthetic. If that didn't work he would have to stay at the hospital until it was felt safe to fully anaesthetize him (he'd had his breakfast earlier) for her to proceed. She'd know within a ten-minute frame.

When we left him with her and returned to the feline waiting room, closest to the corridor leading off the examination rooms, there were the two people who had been called in when we were, with the little cat. They too awaited word on what the veterinarian who examined their pet would determine about its state of health, so we sat together and talked quietly, reminiscing about the experiences of our early years. They had originated in Montreal, but lived now in Spencerville, not far from Prescott, so they'd had a bit of a drive to come in to the emergency hospital. They'd never heard of the Ogdensburg veterinary hospital and were interested about our venture there for Jack and Jill's surgeries. Before long, our examining veterinarian returned with Jack in her arms, to tell us she'd been successful, that his wound was healing nicely and she had sutured the external area, and he'd have to return to wearing the cone for another seven to ten days. A not unusual occurrence with such little dogs, she said. My husband was so grateful he spontaneously hugged her to convey his emotion, and she graciously smiled.

A few seconds later the other couple was informed that their cat was all right after all, given some instructions for care to nurse her through a little health scare, and given the green light to take her back home to Spencerville. We parted, gratified no end that we'd had a happy ending to our concerns, made all the more pleasant in the company of people whose concerns matched our own.

And then, just as we were awaiting a final invoice before leaving, the third couple shuffled slowly down the corridor, she pushing her walker before her, her normally ebullient manner stilled, her face crumpled with grief. Their little dog, so alert and anxiously looking to them with trust and adoration evident in its beautiful, soft eyes as we watched it earlier in the waiting room, had reached the end of its life. It was twelve, the woman who doted on it had informed us earlier, a little rescue dog that had enormously enriched their lives. She had herself endured a stroke a short while earlier, but shrugged that off as irrelevant to their concern over the little dog's welfare.

They had little realized when they brought their little dog in to the emergency hospital that they would be walking out without her, that their home would be a lot emptier and quieter in future. We grasped their hands, hugged her, told them of our empathy for their loss, and as they slowly made their way out of the hospital, the doors swinging behind them, I cried, our own loss under similar circumstances just a short few months earlier still a fresh wound.