Jerusha Bosarge

Cocoa’s Story
By Jerusha Bosarge

“What? What’s wrong!?” I nearly shouted, sitting up straight in my hard, green chair. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in February, and I had just sat down with a warm cup of Chi Tea at the Barnes & Nobel Café when she called.
“I’m sorry sweetie.” She sobbed, and then the line went dead.
I quickly scrolled through all my cell phone numbers. There it is . . . Marsha Rose Davis. I pushed SEND, but the line was busy. I selected HOME on my cell phone, and pushed SEND. “Hey, Joey. Did Marsha Rose just call there?”
“Yea, she sounded pretty upset. You should call her back.”
“I tried! Her line was busy. What happened?”
“Something’s wrong with Cocoa dog, I think. I could barely understand her.”
“Gotta go. She’s calling on the other line.”
“OK. Bye.”
Click.
“Marsha? What happened?”
“Cocoa’s real sick. He might not make it.”
The words that followed were still churning in my head on my way to the Animal Emergency clinic on Monroe Street. What is she talking about? I wondered. How can a tummy twist? She must have heard the veterinarian wrong. That doesn’t make sense.
I arrived at the single-story, red, brick building and had to push a button on the outside to get someone to unlock the door. Must be a bad neighborhood, I thought. I walked back to my car to make sure the doors were locked.
The clinic door opened to reveal the foreboding sounds of muffled sobbing. I followed the sounds to a white door, marked only by a large, black number 3. It was partly ajar, so I peeked inside. “Marsha?”
“Oh, Jerusha! His little tummy just filled up with too much gas and twisted. It cut all the blood supply to his stomach and pancreas.” Marsha Rose Davis, still in her crisp white chef’s jacket, was lying on the dirty, gray, institutional-style, tiled floor of an approximately 8’ X8’ room, underneath an animal examination table. Her long, chestnut hair spread out across the tile like the roots of a tree. Beside her, mostly unconscious but breathing heavily, was a black mix-bread dog… Cocoa.
“Oh, no. Can they operate?” I immediately sat on the floor beside them.
“They did! His pancreas came back, but his tummy was still black from lack of oxygen, and we don’t know if it will heal!”
The shear panic in her voice was horrifying. I looked helplessly down at Cocoa. His silky black coat trembled with each exhale – a tremble that was reflected on a heart monitor resting just beyond his head.
“Is he cold?” I asked, tucking in the comforter that already surrounded his shivering body.
“I don’t know. It might just be a side-effect of the morphine.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“He said that Cocoa was obviously suffering, that he probably would not get any better, and that there is no way of knowing if he is getting better anyway, because they don’t have the equipment they need to look down into his tummy to see if the blood supply was restored. He thinks I should put him to sleep!” she screamed in terror, and the room was engulfed in wails.
As the night wore on, so did Cocoa’s strength. The morphine began to have less and less effect, and the only strength he had left was spent whimpering. Finally, Cocoa’s strength failed, and the only stimulus capable of eliciting any response at all was a slow, melancholy whistle taught to him years ago by his daddy . . . Marsha’s ex-boyfriend. She reassured Cocoa that his daddy still loved him. I tried to offer some kind of comfort, as Marsha adjusted the cross tucked behind his collar. “What can I do to help?”
“Find Dr. Harrist an endoscope,” she cried. “How am I supposed to know what to do? I don’t want him to suffer because of me! But, what if he heals?”
She was right. There was nothing I could do. Even the vet. staff seemed torn and unsure. If only they had the right equipment. Then we would know. Then we could be sure. Then Cocoa would not have to suffer needlessly.
Later that night, Marsha kissed Cocoa goodbye and left the room as the doctor entered with the syringe. She may never know if Cocoa’s stomach would have healed.

ONE MONTH LATER

“Did you win?” I asked, nearly breathlessly, as I rushed down the long corridor towards the McRae’s office.
“We don’t know, yet. They’re still counting.”
Katrina Coskie, special events coordinator of McRaes-Northpark emerged from the office, smiling sheepishly. The votes were in.
“OK. The first place winner of the “Battle of the Bakeries” contest is Marsha Rose Davis of Obbies Cakes and Chocolates. Second place is A Piece of Cake, and third place is Cakes and Candles. The judging was based on presentation and taste.”
“Great! What did we win, sweetie?” Marsha asked.
“First place is $350, second is $250, and third is $150. Congratulations, everyone. There will be a press release soon announcing the winners,” she continued.
“You can just make my check out to Colt and Cocoa’s Puppy Foundation. I don’t want a penny of it,” Marsha Rose interjected. “And you can put in your press release that I will challenge the other winners to do the same. And, a percentage of each purchase made from my new business, Colt and Cocoa’s Puppy Bakery, will also be donated. The foundation’s money will be used to benefit the Animal Rescue League.”
Marsha turned to me, her eyes swelling with tears. “I want to make sure that no other animal has to suffer needlessly due to insufficient funding.”
“I’m proud of you, Marsha Rose.” I offered.
“Cocoa did not die in vain. I will see to that,” she vowed.
We descended the long corridor, and emerged into the large, open space of the department store. Somehow, everything seemed a little brighter.