Yesterday was a year without Chelsea.
I didn't write anything because I spent the day with my mom as she underwent a partial mastectomy. She is fine. It was preventative. Caught the benign cancerous cells before they could cause damage.
At 81, the doctor gave her a choice. The cells were so slow growing, she could ignore them for years before they would do any harm. There was less than 5% chance they would ever be anything to worry about. That's good news. Finally, this time cancer could be controlled.
It's been a long year. A year where I lost Chelsea due to my own negligence. I let her out without her electric collar, not that she was trained to stay put with it or anything. She was a tough little doggie and would run through the fence when she wanted to. None of our other dogs ever did that. That day, was nothing special. She often left the yard. . . but she always came back. If I called to her, she would turn to me as if to say, "Yeah, I hear ya, but I'm still going this way." There was no controlling her. There was no preventative measure. As a way of dealing, I told myself, she suffered great back pain. Recently, she had had episodes where her spine would contort and it would wrap her up like a pretzel. She would grimace in obvious excruciating pain. I took her to the Vet several times and the only relief he could offer was cortozone injections. I feared for her quality of life. Her death meant she didn't have to go through that. Meant she went out as she lived, running and doing as she pleased. I'd like to think she didn't see that car coming and she didn't feel a thing. That's what I tell myself. My shadow and my "owner" may be gone, but certainly never forgotten. She would have been 8 years old.
Then, in September, just about a year from when we got him, Clark had a violent seizure. Titch, who was nearing the end of her life, called out to Markham. They were the only ones home at the time, because that day, I took my mom to her doctor after she complained of a stomachache . The doctor had her go in for a scan and they told us to go to the emergency room. That's where I was instead of home taking care of my thirteen year old dog. That's where I HAD to be in order for me to not have to witness his dying.
In the year that Clark was with us, he became so attached to me. At first, Chelsea didn't know what to make of it. Later, I think she thought it was cute that this old dog would be so in love with me but she knew I was hers. "It's OK," she'd kind of say to Clark. "You can love her, but she's mine, all mine." Which is how she played it particularly when Clark tried to get up on the bed. She would defiantly stand above him and not let him up. Pretty funny sight considering she weighed eight pounds and he weighed a very dense fifty-four.
He would search the house for me and cried until I came home. Lucky for both of us, I could take him with me most of the time. He would be my co-pilot. He would sit beside me at the various offices I went to write. He would walk beside me, getting the attention of strangers who found his personality and handsome good looks inviting. He'd let them pet him, but he rarely engaged. He only had eyes for me.
There were no signs of an illness. Sure, he'd had trouble over the year - his vet bills were double what we'd ever spent on Chelsea and Maverick combined. When we first got him, I'd check on him as he 'slept' to make sure he was still breathing. But it was just a few weeks before he died that I noticed he didn't follow me from room to room. He didn't ask permission to "be". Something must have clicked inside of him, it was evident. He had found his home. He had found where he belonged.
And so, when Peter called me that night to tell me there was something wrong with Clark. I knew what he was saying. I said, "The surgeon just arrived. He's telling us what he will be doing. I can't talk now. Please tell me I love him. Do what you need to do." And I hung up.
Clark had gone into a long and severe seizure in the arms of my son. My son, who was mad at him, who didn't like him, and wanted us to get rid of him. My son, whose dog, Maverick was dominated by Clark. Over food mostly, the two male dogs would have altercations. Fights that left Maverick bleeding on several occassions. Getting inbetween them once, I felt Clark's bite and had the black and blue mark to show for it. Markham was defensive of his dog, understandably. So, how appropriate that "God" would leave it to Markham to HAVE to care for Clark. And when he needed to, my 16 year old son was there for him. I don't know what happened. Peter won't tell me details. But Clark couldn't have gone out any other way.
A little over a month later, my aunt died, finally. Her cancer had become unresponsive to the chemo and had started to grow once more. Unlike Chelsea who literally didn't see her death coming and unlike Clark who had gotten stronger over the year we took care of him, Titch started to visiably fail. She stooped, she shuffled, she ate less and less. Over the course of the two weeks before she was hospitalized, she became a shell of the person she once was.
Her death was anticipated, expected and inevitable. The surprise was that she lingered in the hospital for over a week without any liquids, meds, or breathing apparatus. She clung to life even though there was virtually no life left to cling to. She strained for each breath. Her heart labored. Her muscles twitched. Two of the oncology nurses said they'd never seen anything like it.
People paraded in to say their good-byes. People prayed. Then the next day, they prayed some more. We cheered her on. Even the priest from her church gave her the last sacraments and said, "Go on. Meet your maker. It's time to go" in the cheeriest Irish brogue. But days later, she was still there.
Three deaths in one year. Someone said, death comes in threes because of the Holy Trinity. I don't know. I do know one thing though.
When I go, I want to go like Chelsea. I want to be remembered as I was; spunky, spry, bossy and bitchy. I want to say, 'Yeah, I see you, but I'm going this way, not your way.' And I wouldn't want to be a burden. I wouldn't want to have a long good-bye.
God, I miss Chelsea but I'm so grateful that I was hers for that long and that she was that sassy miniature long haired dachshund we all knew and loved to the very end.
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