It was the calculus of the question, rather than the math, that derailed me.
What’s the maximum dollar value, the query read, that I’d be willing to spend on emergency medical services for my dog?
I eyed the form at our veterinarian’s office while dropping off Atticus to be boarded before a recent trip. We’d boarded him there many times before and I’d always signed one waiver or contract or another before leaving him behind, but this was new: a box encircled by a yellow highlighter, featuring a bold dollar sign and a blank space.
“What about this?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Oh,” the kind staff member replied. “That’s just in case we can’t reach you and Atticus really needs something.” She paused a beat. “I mean, we’ll try really hard to get ahold of you … ”
“What should I put down?” I asked, instantly recognizing my stall tactic had the unintended consequence of essentially asking her to tell me how much Atticus’ life was worth.
She didn’t — couldn’t — answer.
I fared little better. I scribbled “$500” in the box. Guilt immediately washed over me.
This was Atticus we were talking about. Why didn’t I write down $1,000? $5,000? Leave a blank check? My mind did somersaults, briefly considering requesting a surgical procedure price list while simultaneously mulling over the $140 we paid every seven weeks to have our mini goldendoodle groomed and his teeth brushed — as if those maintenance costs justified a higher number.
Atticus obviously wasn’t some add-on in my life, like an excursion on a Caribbean cruise or agreeing to a deal to tack on a movie channel to your cable TV service. He’s a dog, and an incredible one — unquestionably the smartest, most devoted pet we’ve had. Of course he’s family. I can’t walk anywhere in the house without him at my heels. How can you put a price on his steadfastness, his loyalty, his warmth, his morning romps into our bedroom and leaps onto the bed the second he hears us stirring?
You can’t. So perhaps there’s no “right” answer for that “I’ll pay up to $____” question, but pondering it begged another one: Why is it so easy to calculate the cost of something, but not the true value?
Seems to me we’re just not practiced enough at it — meaning we too seldom take time to be introspective, to reflect not just on what we love but why we love it, and how much those things truly mean to us. To be more than thankful. To be ready, at the drop of a hat, to articulate all the things — small, large, otherwise — in which we take delicious delight.
Reinforcement, though, has taught us to value urgency over priority, activity over transformation, entertainment over enlightenment. The noise of tribalism, angst and rage drown out the calling of the best of our contemplations. We get stuck, as author Stephen Covey liked to warn, “in the thick of thin things.” We keep score in bizarre ways, valuing the petty and taking for granted the valuable. We don’t put first things first because maybe we can’t properly articulate what’s really first in our own lives.
We can do better.
As a new year begins, I’m going to take more cues from Atticus. Upon our return home, I picked him up at the kennel. He loaded so much excitement and unbridled enthusiasm into his 32 pounds that his slobbery, joyful greeting nearly knocked me off my feet. I was overwhelmed.
What a great practice, I thought: Let’s find more ways to wag our tails this year at what’s most meaningful, and resolve to bark less.
