July 17, 2003
When my uncle died of AIDS in 1990 after a long and valiant struggle, my mother sank into her couch at home and wouldn't leave it. She and my aunt had taken care of Uncle Albert for many years, nursing him through his difficult times and seeing that he passed comfortably. But his death hit my mom extremely hard and she fell into a depression, choosing to stay safely nestled on her couch while we tried many things to help bring her around to her once vibrant self.
Years earlier, my mom had hinted at getting a puppy, saying it would ease the empty-nest syndrome that had hit her house, after my brother and I went to college. Having never had a dog, Dad resisted. This time, however, we all agreed that a puppy might help ease Mom's broken heart and feed her nurturing spirit that had no outlet. Seeing Mom's sadness over Uncle Al, Dad finally relented. And the decision quickly helped, as Mom went with us to find a dog.
The first puppies we saw were a brother-sister duo of Bichon Frise. We had heard that they were smart little dogs, bred for companionship. As the two pups bounded around on the floor for us, it was clear the male was the more rambunctious of the two, with his sister trying to keep up for attention. While we all played with the male, my mother was clearly drawn to the female—gentle, happy, and eager to please.
We took the female puppy home, and thereafter our house was never the same. Mom named her Chelsea, after the spirited Manhattan neighborhood that Uncle Al loved so much. The decrees from my father came fast and furious; he announced to all that he would not walk the dog, he would not feed her, he would not train her, and she was never allowed in the bed. But, as Dad quickly learned, ignoring this new being in the house was not going to be possible. As Mom researched the proper way to raise a puppy, Dad resorted to instinct, employing many of the same techniques he had used with my brother and me. First, he made it clear that his word goes. As Mom gently scolded her nipping, Chelsea soon learned what "no bite" meant from Dad's booming voice.
Mom had a new routine that ended up lasting over 12 years: a walk for Chelsea at 6 a.m. followed by breakfast, a lunchtime visit for a walk, and treats—always treats—at 5 p.m. Mom kept Chelsea groomed and made regular visits to the vet, where the doc always pronounced her strong and healthy. But something else happened at the house; whereas Mom instantly fell in love with her new "child," Chelsea slowly but oh-so-surely won over Dad. Small walks in the front yard led to long walks around the block with Dad, which led to hours-long hikes in the woods—a Chelsea favorite. Soon Dad was taking her everywhere. If Mom was Chelsea's staple of support and comfort, Dad was Action Jackson. Where Dad went, adventure surely was close by. And if he had to drive in a car to get there, even better. It got to the point that on weekends, Chelsea would hear Dad putting on his pants from anywhere in the house and run to his side because she knew something was going down. Dad even fixed up the fences in the backyard so Chelsea could run free and participate in her favorite pastime: hunting. Her main chasees were the squirrels, but she occasionally had run-ins with rabbits and skunks. Although in her 12 years she bagged only a few mice and one red squirrel, she succeeded in getting sprayed more than a few times by the adult stinkers. Regardless of her lack of success, she hunted and hunted and hunted. And she settled in with Mom and Dad. I knew things had changed in our house for good when I returned home one Christmas and awoke to find Chelsea snuggled in bed between Mom and Dad. "My girl," he now called her. Every one of Dad's decrees for Chelsea had not lasted, unlike those during my childhood years.
In Chelsea's later years, as her health started failing, she began to pee around the house. Time for a cage or to relegate her to the basement? No way. Mom had always espoused the philosophy that the house adjusts to the family, the family doesn't adjust to the house. So, "pee-pee" pads went down everywhere—on the couch, in the kitchen, on the bed. "You'll get old too someday," Mom told me, "and you won't be able to hold it either." Mom and Dad woke on November 4th to the shallow breathing of Chelsea, nestled in the bed with them in her usual spot. They made her comfortable, petted her, and said good-bye as she passed quietly. November 4th had been my Uncle Al's birthday. To those in my family who believe in spirits, it made perfect sense that Chelsea would die on Uncle Al's birthday—they knew Al had something to do with seeing that she passed peacefully and surrounded by her family, just as he had. To those of us who don't believe in such spirituality... well, we might start believing.
And as heartstring tugging goes, the ending of "Old Yeller" ran a distant second to my father's e-mail to the family the morning that Chelsea passed. He wrote that as he and Chelsea embarked on their regular bathroom run in the front yard at 11 p.m. the night before she died (in what would be her final walk), they spotted a rabbit. As always, Chelsea gave chase, "hunting to the end," as Dad wrote. It was a perfect close to his e-mail—and Chelsea's life. And we will always remember the little puppy that got my mom off the couch 12 years before.
I’m so glad to end this with the new puppy we got for you Dana & Debbie is starting that love all over again! And their little girl is doing great, and my father has taken the first step and started her house training, and now all they have to do is agree on her name. Thank You So Much!
March 26, 01
I was surprised to hear his voice on my machine. Strange, I had been thinking of calling him for two weeks. I’m still reeling from my dearest canine friend, Dudley, death two weeks ago and I was feeling that it was time to lighten my load of stress and burden in my life. My depression over all this loss has deepened and a friend of mine suggested anti-depressants. Isn’t it awful that we can’t stand to see someone in realistic emotional pain? We all want to step in and short-circuit it so we can feel better. Don’t cry!! More than 20 minutes of grief is too much than anyone wants to hear about. I told her that I am feeling my feelings and letting myself run the course of grief, as it should be. I don’t want to get over it. I don’t want to forget. I’m not ready to get passed it. I will. Maybe soon. Maybe not. But I will. Right now, I feel deep loss. It also has made me think more realistically about Norman. Norman. The dog sent to me by guardian angels surely. Ii love him so much and I also think the guardian angels were entirely his. Although he has added so much joy to my life, laughter and companionship, he has also added stress and burden. I’m just exhausted. I’m drained and I can’t give him the life he needs. He needs a young 11-year-old girl who wants to put her arms around him and sleep with him. A girl who wants to walk and run with him every day. A girl who wants to play tug and indulge his insatiable need for affection. Norman deserves to be an only dog. He really needs that a lot. Consequently, Norman took priority over Buster and although they enjoyed playing with each other, Buster’s life was not the better for it.
So when Paul Newton, the Old English sheepdog rescue person in this area, called to say that he had knowledge of a family who seems right for Norman, I called him back cautiously. Our last conversation was very information. Paul had told me more information about Norman’s former "disowners" (as I call them). I told him that I have come to love Norman and he has become a part of the family and the only way I would part with him is if I found a family where he could be an only dog and he would be loved and cared for as much as I love and care for him. Paul told me about Dawn and gave me her number. I did call and left a message pretty much thinking, "Oh, she won’t call back". She did. Her voice seemed gentle and she asked me if she and her daughter could come to see him. We didn’t have a definite time so I told her to call me back on Tuesday and we would talk about it. I told her all about him and almost hoped she would say "Oh, that’s not the kind of dog we had hoped for". In stead she said, "he sound so much like our dog Thomas. We lost him a year ago from cancer and he was 10 years old. He was so much a part of our life".
She said that she had called around about other breeds but she and her daughter loved Old English Sheepdogs. I told her to call back.
In the meantime, I talked about my thoughts of letting Norman go with friends. Everyone thought it was a bad idea. I saw him in his bed next to my desk all day with me so busy and confused I had little more than a few moments to pat him. I knew he needed brisk walks and playing. Buster came out to play but got discouraged with Norman’s tendency to win with "tug" and went back to bed. I didn’t find any better solutions and couldn’t see any improvement for his life in the future. As a matter of fact, in the summer heat, I’m likely to be out there walking with him even less. I was not displease albeit somewhat suspicious when Dawn called back on Tuesday to ask if she and her daughter could come over to see Norman. With my heart in my mouth, I said ok and gave her the directions. Oh, I thought, what’s the harm. I know I won’t like them. Norman won’t like them. They won’t like Norman. They will be too poor to support him. The little girl will be nasty. Come visit Norman, indeed. Lots of luck, lady.
"Oh, Norman, they are here. Now you don’t have to like anyone. You have a home with us. Just lighten up on Buster and we’ll be fine. Go ahead, Norman, bark loud. They won’t like you."
"OH, this is Norman? Is that his name, Norman?"the 11-year-old daughter said in such an adorable way. "Ya, so what of it?" Ok, so I didn’t
say that but I thought it. Then her mother and this 11-year-old girl as bright as a new penny gently let him approach them. His tail was not
wagging!! Right!!! Good!! He doesn’t like them!! Yes!! "Come into the living room and we will sit for a while". As they walked in Norman did a
strange thing. He went to find his tug toy and brought it to Amanda, that awful, terrible, 11-year-old girl. I was shocked. Dawn, Amanda’s neat
and clean looking, long hair, thin blond type that we all hate because she is thin, sat down on the floor. Amanda sat on Norman’s bed. Yipes!!!
She sat on his bed!! What a sneaky trick. Oh, Norman, what a pushover you are. He put his head on her lap and in her hands. Dammit!!! I felt it
in my heart. They are for him. I knew it. He was for them. Dammit!!! No, I know it is the best for Norman and for Buster and for me that he find a
loving home but I didn’t think NOW! Them!! Already!!! That was pretty much how I felt when I took Dudley to the vet for the last time. I
thought we would walk out together. I knew it had to be done. He had to go to a restful, painless place and I had to be the grown up to make
the decision. I had to be strong for him.
DAMMIT!! I HATE THIS GROWNUP STUFF!!
My heart filled. My eyes filled . My throat choked. They wanted to know what they should do. They would love to have him "But of course, it is up to you." What a SNEAKY thing to say. Just like her daughter. All that sweet, considerate, manners stuff. Hey, you don’t fool me. And you don’t fool Norman. "Norman, stop wagging your tail, you traitor!! And stop all that kissy face stuff". Ok, I didn’t say that either. As a matter of fact, I was so happy in my heart that he had found them and they had found him. I asked them to take him with them on their drive to Amanda’s Tai Kwan Do lesson. Oh, how wholesome are we?? Give me a break. Can I take any more of this? They agreed. I said "That way you’ll have some time to know if you like him and if he likes you". I know there was a part of me thinking "Heh Heh Heh, he’ll be so miserable they won’t even leave the driveway". Ok, I didn’t say that. We all went out to the car and Norman jumped into their Jeep and sat up in his uniquely statuesque posture as they drove away. He never even said "Ah, Ma, I’ll be right back". He never waived goodbye. I stood there crying my eyes out and sobbing loudly as they drove away. They waived. His look could only be described as "We’re goin for a ride, Yup, we’re goin for a ride, Huh, Huh!."
There was another part of me that said "Huh, they’ll come back and say they want a smarter dog. A more active dog. A dog who drives the car. A dog who can do the multiplication tables!! They will suddenly realize that they really wanted a teacup toy poodle!!!" They returned as scheduled and said that they hadn’t gone to Amanda’s lesson but rather to her father and some others to show them Norman. They reminisced how much he is like their former dog Thomas. The Old English Sheepdog traits were what they loved. They fell in love with Norman and would I think it was ok if they had him. Oh this was my chance to grill them. Do you have a yard? Do you have any other dogs? Do you have a water purifier? Do you live within 5 miles of all possible religious institutions of worship? Will you walk him and give him exercise? Will you teach him French and possibly Chinese???? Will you always provide Heartguard and Advantage everymonth? On the FIRST of each month??? If you are late, even one time, will you spend an evening in self-flagellation??? Will you groom him? Oh, here is his comb. You can start with that. By the way, What will you feed him. You know, he is used to the best here.
They were ridiculous with their answers. Imagine!!! That 11 year old shiny penny excitedly told me how they are in this new house with three bedrooms and two bathrooms and a big yard and she will sleep with him and feed him and brush him and that she was so good to Thomas and will be so good to Norman and………..whew!!! That little girl was not shy. She was excited and I could see it. She really loved him. DAMMIT! He really had already taken to them both. He had found home. I was reminded that I have never really found home and I envied him. What a love he was. How loving they were. "Oh, I guess we had better do this now. I won’t put it off" I told them with choked throat and rolling tears. Amanda said, Oh, Please don’t cry." I asked if I could come visit him and she said "Yes, you can come visit him all you want and I’ll even email you all about him and sent you pictures!!" She gave me her email address and I gave her mine. Oh, DAMMIT, how can you argue with that? I gave them both of his beds, his toys, his toy box, his shampoo, his conditioner, the name of his groomer and vet and I hugged them both. I hugged Norman as I had always hugged him. A big dog hugs different. It’s more like hugging a big round bottom drum. I kissed him. I knew someday I would see him again and visualized that I would see him running across his new yard with his girl to greet me. They put all his stuff in their Jeep and he willingly jumped in ready for another ride in the car. His favorite thing. Dawn said that when they left before they didn’t know who was more forlorn, Norman or me. I knew she was saying that to make me feel good. He never even used one Kleenex. I used a box. I hugged them again and waived goodbye and set upon the task of feeling my feelings and getting on with the grief process. I did the grown up thing even if it did hurt. Some people think "He’s my dog and he can just live the way I want him to". I wanted him to have the best life I could get for him. He has that with his shiny new penny girl and her pretty, blond, thin mother. Probably the rest of the family is grumpy but they are nice. DAMMIT!
Yes there is a postscript to this story. Tonight Buster sat on my lap for the first time for more than 5 minutes in his whole life. He has come out
to play several times and seems so much calmer. This is a whole new chapter in his life because he has never been an only dog.-----Paulette
"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage".....Anais Nin
