Every Good Friday seems to be terrible. There’s a bit of a curse with my family that each Easter someone in the family passes away. Then there’s the guarantee someone will ruin my Good Friday when someone in my family DOESN’T die.
Case in point:
Back in 2002 I was dating a veterinarian assistant. She worked at a vet hospital and was always on call for emergencies. Well, that Good Friday, at around three in the morning, she gets an emergency call telling her to come in. Since she was staying over with me, I was now awake and didn’t have to work, I decided I’d just drive her in.
As people may know from my writings, I am not a morning person…more so, I just don’t like waking up. So, even though I was driving her in, I was severely annoyed to have been woken up at 3AM on my day off.
We arrive after a short drive and she rushes in. A lady had let her little toy poodle out to use the restroom and didn’t notice the back gate had swung open. The dog ran out of the back yard and, according to the owner, was hit by a drunk driver. I don’t know if the driver was drunk or not, but given the size of this poodle (about the size of a large pug), I doubt anyone would have seen it at night in this area, anyway.
Seeing as I had nothing to do, I got the “privilege” of sitting with this lady for hours, listening to her go on and on about the dog, while my girlfriend and the surgeon worked on this dog. When seven in the morning rolled around and I saw the main vet come walking out, I knew the dog didn’t make. She went on to tell the lady they did all they could, but the dog had lost too much blood and was beyond saving.
Obviously the lady starts crying more, gets some hugs, and then sighs deeply. She looks at me and says, “I guess I could take solace in the fact he’s in Heaven now with Jesus…on the same day Jesus died…”
“Sure,” I tell her, “But I bet you twenty quid he won’t be back on Monday.”