第1章 再待十分钟

An Extra Ten Minutes

佚名/Anonymous

每周一下午两点，我和博都要去密尔沃基东北部的银泉康复中心，为住在那里的老人们进行一小时的宠物治疗。我们穿过走廊走向接待室，与每位相遇的人打招呼。在接待室里休养的人都会过来爱抚博——一只活泼可爱的德国短毛猎犬。他今年10岁，体重99磅，很招人喜欢。你们很难想象，8年前，这只狗被打得伤痕累累，来到我家门阶上，一见到人就吓得仰躺在地，四脚朝天，抬起腿来就撒尿，直到人们抚摸他，柔声细语地安慰他，他才会有安全感。

我们初次拜访康复中心，路经淡黄色的1号走廊时，从112号房间里传出一位老人激动的声音，带着浓重的德国口音：“玛，玛，来了一条德国狗！这里，有条德国狗！”

随即，一位皱纹满面、约6英尺高的白发瘦高老人出现在门口，他张开有力的双臂，伸出大手，邀请我们进去。“我是查理，这是我的妻子埃玛。请进，请进。”

博听到查理友好、热情的声音，身子立刻激动地晃个不停，摆出贴近人大腿的姿势，等着人爱抚他，查理立即满足了他的愿望。我们进了屋，看见有着紫罗兰色头发的埃玛坐在床上，她80多岁了，虽然瘦弱但精力充沛。她笑着用手拍打床，只拍了一下，拴着皮带、向来顺从的博就跳上床，躺在她的身边，舔她的脸。查理告诉我们，“二战”期间他俩从德国移民到英国，不得不忍痛割爱，把德国短毛猎犬马克斯留在那里。说到这里，埃玛满眼泪水。查理说，博长得和马克斯简直一模一样。

隔壁114房住的是七十多岁的老太太凯瑟琳，几个月前她就不跟别人说话了，近一个月以来她都坐在轮椅上，始终处于紧张性精神分裂状态。任何关心、拥抱、谈心或陪伴都无法打动她。我和博走进她的房间时，床边的小灯亮着，遮阳窗帘拉着，她背对着我们，低头垂肩坐在轮椅上，面朝看不到任何风景的窗子。

博用套着他的皮带拽着我向前走去。我还没来得及蹲到凯瑟琳面前，博就已经站在她的左侧，并把头靠在她的膝盖上。我拉了把椅子坐在她跟前并向她问好，但她没有反应。我和博在那里坐了15分钟，而凯瑟琳一言未发，一动不动。这让我很吃惊，而令我更吃惊的是，博把长长的下巴搭在凯瑟琳的膝盖上，竟一动不动地站了整整15分钟。

你要是了解博，就会知道他为得到一次爱抚，能等上10秒钟就已经很难得了。但这次是个例外，他把头贴在凯瑟琳的膝盖上，和她一样僵在那里。与这个毫无生气的女人在一起让我感到极不舒服。一到两点半，我就匆忙地说“再见”，然后站起身来，拉着不愿离开的博往外走。

我问一位护士，为什么凯瑟琳会得这种紧张性精神分裂症，她告诉我：“我们也不知为什么。有时候老人被家人嫌弃，他们就会得这种病，我们只能尽力让他们感到舒心。”

眼前浮现出所有能使我幸福生活的善良的人和动物，而后又消失了。我能想象得到凯瑟琳此刻的心情：孤单、烦乱、绝望，甚至被人遗忘。我决心找寻一种方法去读懂她的心。

从那以后，每周一我和博去接待室时，都会特意去112房探视查理和埃玛，还要去114房陪伴凯瑟琳。每次都如此——查理挥手邀我们进屋，埃玛拍床等博去舔她，两人对此总是不亦乐乎。然后我们去凯瑟琳的房间——她总是无精打采地坐在那里，除了还有呼吸外，几乎没有一点儿其他的生命迹象。

每次我都试着和凯瑟琳说话，可她一直没反应。我逐渐失去了兴致，我不甘心只是跟她待在一起。博却一如既往，每次探访凯瑟琳，博都会“坐禅”15分钟，教我如何“陪伴”凯瑟琳。

第四次去康复中心时，我打算绕过凯瑟琳的房间，可是博却有自己的主意，他把我拽了进去，跟前几次一样，他把头搭在她的膝盖上，待在她的左侧。我默许了，可是心里想着那天下午晚些时候的商务会谈，因此我决定把陪凯瑟琳的时间从以往的15分钟缩短为5分钟。我没吭声，只是默默地坐在那里，一门心思想着即将开始的会谈。凯瑟琳肯定没有注意，也不会在意。可是我起身要拽走博的时候，他却纹丝不动。

接下来，奇迹发生了——凯瑟琳把手放到了博的头上，没有别的举动，只是她的手。博既没有像往常那样用鼻子蹭，也没有越发用力地摇晃身子，他仍然纹丝不动，像雕塑一样站在那里。

我又坐了下来，心中有说不出的震惊。随后在那宝贵的10分钟里，我感受着凯瑟琳的手和博的头之间那种生命之源的沟通。两点半时，时钟响了，我们的15分钟到了，此时凯瑟琳的手缓慢地移回膝上，博也转身走出房间。

那次探访已经过去了10年，博在8年前因中风死在我的怀里。爱有多种表达方式，每一次我因对某人感到失望而准备离开时，都会想起博对凯瑟琳和对我那坚贞不渝的爱。既然博能有耐心多待10分钟，那么我坚信我也能。

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.