Chapter 1: Helen Inside the restaurant, they were just an ordinary couple, enjoying their dinner, comfortable with the lulls in conversation that define a successful relationship. Yet Ben was tuned in to everything unsaid, to the waves of distraction playing over Eileen's face, her refuge in the safety of neutral topics--his latest commission, an upcoming exhibition in California, the antics of their beloved Newfoundland dog, Didi, patiently waiting for them to come home. He knew what was really on Eileen's mind, but at this stage in their marriage he had learned his wife would talk about her troubles when the time was right. Outside the restaurant, there was a creature waiting in the shadows. Historically, only certain humans--the kind with food--were of any interest to this animal and like most of her species, she relied heavily on olfactory guidance to pick her targets. But on this bitter, cloudless night, refrigerated air would have forced her to trust to visual cues, searching for victims with a friendly, receptive demeanor and preferably carrying a doggy bag. An elderly husband and wife shuffled toward a frosty- white Cadillac like a couple of emperor penguins. By any standard they looked approachable, likely to be sympathetic, and there was that all- important polystyrene container in hand. Then the woman spoke, and the shrill and relentless pitch of her voice forced the creature to back off, the tirade fueled by an inattentive waitress, stale bread, and overpriced entrees, the woman's husband distracted and happy to grunt in agreement, his index finger working some meaty detritus trapped between difficult- to- reach molars. Next up was a gaggle of twentysomething women, laughing and shouting, pitching back and forth, alcohol, high heels, and black ice adding to their amusement as they staggered across slippery asphalt arm in arm, five abreast. No doubt they were getting in practice for next month's office Christmas party. Only one of these Spice Girls kept a straight face and fortunately she was the one fumbling for a set of car keys. There was a man overdressed in a suit and tie, out of place with an attractive woman in blue jeans, the two awkward together in the open raw darkness. She stood upright, feet together, hugging herself, drum tight, impervious to his forced small talk, his rehearsed prelude to plucking up his courage and leaning forward, hoping for a kiss, as she read the move and delivered a polite smile while extending a weak hand to shake. The moment said it all--thanks, but no thanks. Another blind date disaster, another phone number for her to screen on her caller ID. The guy headed toward the pickup truck had encountered the creature before and perhaps it was recognition that had her edging out of the shadows until he opened the passenger side door and a stream of curses exploded in the frigid night air. The words were meaningless to her but their volume, clipped intonation, and vehemence packed a punch. His ice scraper was no longer in the glove compartment where he thought he had left it, forcing him to pull on the cuff of his lumberjack shirt and scour a hole through the gathering frost on his windshield. And then there were Ben and Eileen, headed for a small SUV in the farthest corner of the lot. Despite the absence of a doggy bag, their body language sent all the right signals. They walked slowly, his arm around her shoulder, his head floating a foot above hers, angled down, a big hand visible and offering a reassuring squeeze. "You've gone all quiet on me," said Ben. "You okay?" Eileen looked up and worked on forcing a smile into her voice. "I'm good," she said and added, "I was just thinking about Helen. I'm going to miss her, you know." Ben nodded but kept quiet, watching her find the words. &ldquo Excerpted from Love Is the Best Medicine: What Two Dogs Taught One Veterinarian about Hope, Humility, and Everyday Miracles by Nicholas Trout All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
