Our appointment was for 4:30. I'd only managed to do one of the two errands I needed to get done beforehand, but was happy to see we would be about a minute or two early.

Or a couple minutes late, if you went by the clock in the wife's SUV, since she keeps it, like all her other clocks, slightly fast.

I was disappointed when the suburban ahead of us pulled into the vet hospital, too, because otherwise the parking lot was empty. Our vets' place is like most human doctor's offices... you arrive on time, and then wait a half hour or more for your "scheduled" appointment. Until that Suburban pulled in front of us, I had hopes of being able to get in and out quickly and still run my second errand after the masked heeler got checked out.

As I parked, a man got out of the suburban and coaxed a German shepherd out of the passenger side. The man was late middle age, stocky, well tanned. Someone who had worked hard, outdoors, most of his life I would guess. I watched the young male dog trot in alongside his owner in that weird, distorted gait that the shepherd breed has.

By the time I led the blind masked heeler inside, the man and his dog were already past reception, and he was handing the leash off to an assistant.

"Do you want to wait until it's done?" she asked him. She used his first name easily. He was apparently well known in this place.

He shook his head 'no'.

I tried hard not to eavesdrop, until I heard the word "cremation."

The young German shepherd was making his last walk.

The assistant turned and walked the dog into the back room, the last room past the examining rooms, the room next to the side door. The man never petted the dog. Never looked its way.

Never said goodbye.

He just turned slowly, his shoulders hunched, and asked what he owed them.

"I'm five dollars short," he apologized, handing over his cash. "Okay if I just owe you?" Without waiting for the receptionist's gentle "Sure.", he turned and sped quickly out the door.

I wanted to yell after the man, "What is wrong with you?"

But the simple fact is, we humans all seem to grieve in different ways. Both of the heelers that we had to have put down died in our arms. Hard, yes, but no way we would ever let them make that scary journey alone.

But I honestly could not tell if this gruff, hard man was that indifferent...

Or if he had to flee as fast as he could before he lost all composure. For some people, loss is such a bottomless pit of pain, their only hope is to never fall in.

And so they walk quickly away.

I wanted to ask the receptionist what was wrong with the dog. It looked perfectly healthy trotting in. But I doubt either of our vets would put an animal down that they did not agree it was the best thing to do. I mean, the pound is right next door if a pet is simply unwanted. So there was no point in reminding her of the duty they had yet to complete this evening.

I especially wanted to go back into that back room, past the examining rooms and next to the side door, and give that German shepherd, one of my least favorite breeds, a good hug and lots of scritches. But I doubt he would get any comfort from attention from a complete stranger.

It would just be one more thing that seemed wrong.

And, truth be told, I knew his death would not be cold and alone. We know these vets, and their staff.

He would be comforted, not abandoned, when the end came.

But the vet was subdued as she examined the masked heeler, and gave us yet more pills to care of yet another heeler with butt problems. The receptionist was somber as I paid our bill. No "Happy New Year" here.

I made no mention of the shepherd. I understand the emotions of bringing death to a beautiful animal, even when that death is the preferred choice.

As I drove across town to pick up the wife at work, I took a detour through the cemetery.

To look at the deer, I suppose.