Charley, my girl

I don’t really know where to begin. It’s not easy with her. I could write and write and never stop, never bothering with sleep or a meal, just keeping at it the whole while, hammering away at this keyboard until my fingers transform into bloody nubs, talking about my girl without pause. Some memories are built within the confines of tight parameters, they sport distinct edges joining beginning to end, but with Charley, well, you can toss normalcy out the window and watch it float about the highway wind, adding yet another page to the slurry of personal histories us travelers deposit in our wake. The whole thing had been an adventure you see, every last biting droplet of life to be wrung from the rag. She was one of those once-in-a-lifetime affairs, and thus I fail to convince myself how a single day nor hour of her time here does not matter to it.

To start, we’d named her Charley on account of the Steinbeck novel and promised her a similar life. We’d promised ourselves a similar life in the same breath. We were going to be adventure seekers, visioning ourselves traveling the country in a self-converted cargo van turned camper, hoping to soak in the peaceful, pristine nature of mother earth. It was a nod to the rejuvenation of the soul. Ditching the nine-to-five for an opportunity to bask in the far-stretching beauty of infinite vistas. Snowcapped peaks and sandy beaches. Towering sequoias and red-rocked mesas. Our Charley was not the same as Steinbeck’s Charley, not the curly-haired edition of a prestigious poodle but rather the contrasted measure of a Doberman Pinscher colored blue, and one whose parents’ resembled horses in size and stature as much as they did canines. She’d been the cutest little pup we’d ever set eyes on, running around with her brothers and sisters, using her oversized paws to slap around a soda bottle on a sunny November afternoon. It was this day we’d come to save her from an ordinary life. She cuddled right up alongside us in the front seat of the Volvo for our cross-state venture home, everyone already well underway in their spell of love, knowing this life was going to be a far different version than most families ever gambled with participation in.

There exist these moments where certain, random memories just shout at me. Whole days which catapult back as if they’d never slipped on their shoes and waltzed out the door. The clock having never moved far enough forward to make a difference to their appearance. Today I can see many of those past occurrences as clear as the present day. Her paws are propped up on the railing, snout searching out over the earth in no different manner than how a human being performs the same operation. My wife is stationed beside her, and they are both taking it in, all of it, life, its peaceful and rugged elements blended to make something cohesive out of an onslaught of contradictory conditions. This is one of those poses she’s frequently come to place herself in, it has happened too many times to call it coincidence, like she’s making habit of it. It’s as if she’s watching how other humans interact, how they stand side-by-side and peer out in wonderment with an introspective glow, and her having decided such behavior to be something she ought to be involved in. She had done it often on the trip. I’d seen her take a similar stance in Banff, Bend, and Bozeman. And I can see it right now, vivid as it ever appeared in the flesh. There is no place she finds acceptable as being outside her realm, no area off-limits, no square inch of this planet she’d prefer as going undiscovered to her. It’s an attitude taking after my own heart, and a trait I’d been enamored to trample the country alongside.

I like to imagine a conversation is taking place in these occurrences. It’s what I prefer to believe is happening. A pensive dialogue being exchanged with the silence if nothing else. A chat with our ever-present neighbor, nature containing a wonderous gleam evident amongst a sparkle to her smile. There is something to the sights and sounds and smells of the road Charley has become infatuated with, and there is no doubt my observation of her joy is a genuine encounter. Every time we open the van door she wants out. And every time we open the van door, she wants back in. She wants the road, the new scene to spin itself into her view for casual observance. She thrives being on the move, a traveler in every sense, whether by the labor of her own paws or the rotating work of dissolving tire treads, a static existence has become her mortal enemy.

She adores being a visitor in places, always on the lookout for an opportunity to be the carefree recipient of a stranger’s touch. There is more to this scene in my head which plays out right now. We are somewhere along the coast of northern California. A fog is waging war against land. The surf holds a magnificent prominence from this elevated perspective, it is neither calm nor rough but consistent. It is the relentless movement of white lines pressed in over blue, wasting themselves ashore and then washing back to rejoin the masses, making the first-hundred-or-so feet of the ocean appear like bath water against an ominous stretch of a deep-blue Pacific moving outward, down, and off to cover a hidden dimension, all to a distance us measly humans cannot really fathom gaining dominance over. The coastline dances north from my view, out over their heads, a continental stretch taking place, and this section of breaking waves follows the land in perfect contour as to clear the head of any finite, abrupt end taking place. Clouds mesh with towering pines, crashing into them with a perceived violence which does no immediate, visible damage to either party. A thin stretch of beige beach marks a defined boundary between two separate worlds, presenting itself like the definitive lines of a children’s coloring book. We had woken up not far from here in a Walmart parking lot. It was a rather regular morning in an irregular place, this being something we’d come to have gotten used to. Early morning supermarket or campground strolls, a quick breakfast, then leaving the current set of earthly residence behind for the next version of whatever lies ahead. Charley was always the first to claim her spot, loving every second of a journey moving her somewhere new.

I’m going to warn you that this story does not end well. It’s not one of those fairytales or happily-ever-after types. I’ll do it right here, pausing in this spot for your benefit, give you some insight before you bother with advancing. You might as well know it. Some people do not do so well with heartbreak, with the sting of tragedy, and, in all honesty, I can hardly blame people for avoiding such narratives. This story does not end well in the exact same manner none of our stories really end all that well. We are all placed onto this planet under the same rule. It’s the same pretenses, whether human or animal, propositioned by our birth, that singular, defining law stating how we are all eventually destined to leave it behind. If Charley has taught me one thing, it’s the proper patrol of that painful, torturous lesson sometimes really needing to be hammered home about how life really is, indeed, a short-term affair for us to indulge in.

She had taken a certain fondness for Yosemite; both the mountainous panoramas and the sprawl of the valley had added the trademarked, tilt to her neck. I think it was the congregation of people down below she happened to enjoy the most. People had developed a habit for shedding love on her, flocking to her, and it’d become an affection she enjoyed shoving right back on them. If you got too close, we’d hand out warning, a tongue was sure to come lashing toward your cheek. We drove up the southern ridge to take in the majesty of perfect geography, staring out at half dome, and she’d sported that same inquisitive pose glaring down at the world below her once again. There was something about her approach which made you self-conscious, which made you admire her capability for appreciating everything, this supreme connectivity with all the simple and important aspects of being alive, leaving one to ponder how a human being might shed all the laborious irritations from their own lives to recognize the depth of intrinsic existence yearning down below.

Hours upon hours had been spent. Daily and nightly hours for a series of months had been dedicated to building out this van. It came out as an impressive vehicle. A highly presentable little home on wheels. The more self-centered portion of our expectations saw us spending our evenings showing off the intricate details of our developed rig to campsite neighbors and fellow enthusiasts, but it had been her who’d stolen the show from the very onset. For every person who asked about the camper, five or ten would come up to marvel at Charley, asking for a moment to offer her up a quick pet. Many of them traded stories with us, recalling tales of previous relationships with a special Doberman they’d exchanged time with, whether it’d been recently or back from their youth. Nearly all of them had made reference to their sweet demeanor and goofy nature as opposition to a reputation they too often get stapled alongside but rarely deserve. She is nothing if not an eighty-pound sweetheart you see, and there is no other way to describe such a temperament. Her passenger seat is directly upon the lap of whoever isn’t driving, eyes glued to the window and taking it all in. Her spot of slumber is whatever space she can muster right in between us. She is our chaperone to breweries and our dinner guest to the various outdoor patios this country has to offer. There are really no exceptions to where she goes. Charley is as much our family as we are hers.

Thrombocytopenia. If this is the first time you’re hearing the term, consider yourself a lucky human. It’s not a happy occasion to be involved with. It had been a lazy, summer Sunday afternoon, and we’d woken up from a nap to notice blood dripping from her nose. The next morning was to be our earth-shattering introduction to all the delicate details of her condition.

It had been only the first week of September and the snow was already falling steady over Lake Louise. Heavy, wet flakes floated from the sky, fluttering in their softness until settling as decoration to cover the landscape in a brilliant white. Charley stood upon the edge of the clear blue water sporting a raincoat like a runway model, a neon rendition of various umbrellas printed in colorful repetition. This girl goes unfazed by the freezing temperatures, or the troves of tourists busy pointing their cameras every which direction. We made our way up the trail, up to the famous teahouse, not even the final approach of metal stairs being enough to interfere with the steady progress of forward momentum. There is a certain affinity for the Canadian parks living in our blood, how dog-friendly the experience is. How welcome our canine friends are to share the trails, to take part in all the illustrious wildness of a primitive earth with us. She had marched the whole stretch of Johnston Canyon without difficulty, much of it constructed of a steel gridded floor unfit for the comfort of padded paws, and then we’d pushed even up further to the ink pots, this being only the day before, making new friends and obtaining a few apprehensive scowls along the way. I’d been proud of how well she’d handled the traffic more so than her passing any real test of endurance. When there was a place to go, a sight to see, steps to be had, people were not very often a cause for distraction. The next couple of nights in the Canadian Rockies had been reserved for campfires and relaxation. My memories here are tough to get a grip on, they hold the harmonious pitch of how heaven might sing out my name. It is a place where a person might wander in any direction for miles on end and never go without the company of a view, this peaceful backdrop of continuous grandeur to light up the sky, dusk until dawn. It is a sight you cannot adequately describe with the usage of words. It is a place where language is destitute to supply any worthy comparison.

I think about it all the time. Her. Us. What she was able to do and see. The sights and smells of all these renowned locations and backcountry crevices belonging to our continent having become a real-life experience to her. Topographic wrinkles to be felt below her paws. She’s bore witness to more of this world than all the human beings belonging in our family have. Been more places than the vast majority of our friends. A real-world wisdom had grown to expel from her eyes as result. I think it was a rather sincere admiration she came to hold for her shake at collecting experiences. I think she felt the pleasure of having embraced the opportunity and recognized the importance of what the landscape might sling her way. The beautiful reflections stretching out over the polished surface of Lake McDonald. The reddened desert and towering spires surrounding the solid blue sky of Sedona. The top of Mt. Tallac and the expansive view over the esteemed Sierras. Wandering the city streets of Vancouver, Portland, or Salt Lake City. Seattle or Tulsa or Bismarck. Grassy parks in Phoenix and Denver and Amarillo. The solitude of distant camping spots in the far-off reaches of BLM land not many have ever heard bothered learning the name of. The convenience of a stop at a highway rest area or parking lot, and the quick walk to take survey of the area before moving on down the line. It was all part of our journey, and every corner of it had been an episode of adventure.

The first hospitalization was a primitive venture. I mean that because we were raw to what was happening, with no idea of what to expect. It was a hopeful endeavor if nothing else, the adrenaline of its newness carrying us through. I remember waiting for the phone calls to ring in with updates. Her platelet count had been nonexistent that first morning at our vet, and he’d urged us to rush her to the nearest emergency animal center. All that was going to help was medicine and tightly crossed fingers. The doctors had given the treatment a fifty-fifty success rate, a flip of the coin, and Charley’s situation was to be labeled as ‘guarded’ for the far-off future even if she’d pulled through these first few days.

For whatever reason, there is this memory of our time in North Dakota which plays vivid in my mind at this moment. It was maybe the fourth or fifth night of our trip, but it was our first night beyond the forests of the Midwest, and our first real station about an actual campsite. It was quaint and quiet and featured a sprawl of plateaus flattened off in all directions the compass spins. We hiked the sole path up to the highest hill in the park and I could sense the adventure lurking on deck for us. Everything had felt real and perfect in that moment, a pristine sense of life rushing over us like a rogue wave washing away the complacency of former routine. I look at these visions and I realize how young and wiry she’d been back then, just a few years back. I can stare at her and see how much this illness has taken its toll on her. It is enough to break me down. I have been broken down too much as result, shattered into so many pieces just to be cobbled back together to face the hammer once again. My heart yearns to repeat these moments before all of this. To recreate a past, to relive such experiences with an enhanced appreciation for the transpiring events. We had let her off leash up about the top of the hill. My wife had convinced me to do it, but I can admit to feeling terrified. I knew if she fled, left, if something pulled her attention from us and she ended up lost amongst a foreign land, that I was never going to give up searching for her. I wished for everything and everyone to be safe more than anything else. She ran back and forth, relishing in her first opportunity to really sprint it out over the past week, enjoying her freedom before she returned back to nudge her head against our sides as to tell us it was time to move on with our stroll.

Charley had been discharged after a three-night stay in the hospital that trip. We were told that her platelet level had rose, but that this was yet to be an endured process. Blood work was a necessity every few days in the beginning, then shifting to every week. It had been the best-case scenario, but it was going to be sometime before a normal life occurred if we ever arrived. It was going to be months before we could even go a month without checking the inner chemistry of her body. None of this was of issue to us of course, we were going to do whatever was needed to be done on behalf of our family.

We had holed up in a Lake Tahoe hotel room. It was the only night of the trip where we caved for any residence outside of the comfort of the van’s interior. Mt. Tallac had been a conquered conquest that day, ten-plus miles of an uphill climb to reach a pinnacle offering up a view causing an awe-inspired, jaw-dropping exasperation to be added to the thinned air pressed around our wind-whipped faces. Charley moved over the trail like a champ, navigating the rocks in a manor to be jealous of, floating over each alternating choice of terrain the world might toss her direction. We split a beer up top, my wife and I, taking in every speck of a prestigious sapphire span before heading back to grab a pizza, seeking out refuge in the warm confines of four walls and a shower for a change. I’d never seen this girl sleep as sound as she had that night. I swear a smile was to be permanently curled into the corners of her snout the whole time she dreamt of this day. I cannot even bear to remember the feeling of how deep that sleep felt.

She had been home for three weeks when all of the sudden she’d begun to show a decreased appetite. The whole thing progressed over the next several days, going from eating less to even less, then to succumb only to the temptation of grilled chicken or steak, and finally to a full-on food aversion where she’d spin her nose away from the mere scent of anything. After another day, she could not hold down water either. We drove her back to the animal hospital where she’d received care. They performed all their textbook checks, looking for blockages, x-rays and ultrasounds, ruling out all the usual suspects before sending us home to wait it out, swearing there was no link to her previous condition at the time. We grew despondent at home, tormented by watching her suffer, and as things worsened over the weekend, we elected to bring her back the next night, pleading with them to take us more seriously. They admitted her for dehydration, and after only one night they told us to pick her up as being hospitalized was causing her anxiety and not helping her. Her condition had gone unimproved, both at home and there. She was still not eating or drinking. We were hanging IV bags in our living room to keep her hydrated. We brought her back again after a few days, pleading they give it more thought, and after a lengthy discussion with our doctor, it’d been decided to stop with the immunosuppressant meds treating her thrombocythemia. Her condition improved within a day. We considered it miraculous. Looking back, she was never really the same after this weekend.

Charley is sitting with us on the patio at Sedona Brewing. We are all staring off into the breadth of a picturesque world, soaking in a fall sunshine we wouldn’t typically get at home. This is the first trip we’ve taken since she’s gotten sick. Our vet gave us his seal of approval on taking to the road. We are very much guarded however, because nothing feels safe any longer. There is an aura of doom covering all of our movement, a remembrance of the pain which rides in the rear of the van with us, everywhere the engine points us, and how it might strike again in an instant. There is not much in the way of hiking to be done on this trip. The steroids have added much weight to her frame, and she’s developed a hatred for the ground here, deciding only to walk whenever we can patches of grass. It was one of those brutal kinds of trips where you try to enjoy it, convince yourself you are having a good time, but all the while you just want to make it back home in one piece without anything horrific happening along the way. We traverse the New Mexico countryside and then brush up with Texas and Oklahoma. She does better toward the end, but it is all yet a heart wrenching affair wreaking havoc over our silent displays of worry.

It’s hard to believe that this trip occurred well over a year ago. This trip was only a few months before the world shifted, before masks and quarantines and all that business transferred itself to a front and center focal point of everyone’s mind. Before my wife, a nurse, got mandated to leave her surgery position to head back to emergency medicine. Charley had become in some senses, a shadow of both herself and us in this time. She was always there for us, in this house with us, and sometimes if you were cuddling up on the couch you might even forget the ailments she’d been sanctioned with. I can admit it now, how we had become too hung up on numbers and medications for so very long. How life had really switched to this reconciliation of working certain things out, a dedication given to struggling to outwork this brutal aspect of disease. If anything, everything happening around the world in this moment was a testament to this very idea. Things had been looking up until the very end of this previous summer, just as soon as our guard had been let down and we’d begun to believe the past to be something left behind. A routine check had discovered her platelet level to be low again. The discovery had been made on my wife’s birthday to make matters even more debilitating. We were to start the process over again, an increase in steroids, and this time a different immunosuppressant to be administered. It was like a horror version of the movie ‘Groundhog Day’. A reset button on life that puts you square back at the beginning of an arduous, emotional journey you’d barely been capable of navigating the first time around. The fall had been a back-and-forth affair in the numbers, but on Christmas eve she’d been given the most positive sign of bloodwork numerals in some time. I yet have the sticky note in the office, complete with the little paw print and smiling face attached.

There is a knock at the door right now. It is a blistering cold February day. It is the day before Valentine’s Day, and I know this coming day will never again hold the same meaning to us. It will always be the day before. A day synonymous with what is about to happen. It is quite literally, death knocking at my front door in this moment, as in an in-home pet hospice doctor coming to take the pain away from my little girl. You see, just when things had been looking up, the bottom had fallen out. She’d begun to stumble around the house, acting aloof, and then her appetite had again begun to wane. There was no way for us to miss anything about her behavior any longer. Not at this point. We were all in tune with each other to an unfathomable degree. The emergency vet discovered she had developed diabetes, and it was only possible to administer insulin if we could get her to eat. Her body had been through it. It had run the gauntlet of a life. The drugs had piled up to a toxic degree and conquered her, once being the cure for disease and then the culprit of her demise. It is a lady in a mask walking up our steps now. She is at our door. She is a sweet woman and is the same woman who came to help us say goodbye to our eleven-year-old girl Abby in what feels just like a few, short years ago. She asks us if we could please keep our distance due and we oblige. She works from the snowy confines of the porch, and we push the portion of our sectional which Charley covets over toward the opening. This had been here space, the cuddler portion of our couch. The spot for tracking squirrels and cozying up for a movie. The embrace we now share is impossible to define. It is beyond anything which might be conveyed. Against all the promises and illustrious workings of the world, all the vet visits and up-and-down number, I’d never actually imagined having to say goodbye so early. We were only a few months past her fourth birthday. The softness of her final breathes leave a warm mist against my cheek. The doctor makes comment to the expressive nature of her face, and my wife and I are taken aback. We’ve made mention of it ourselves, in just this way, as if she’s remembering all those moments of her leaning over the railing to have a talk with us. She is now telling us it is alright. That it will be alright, even if it will not. That we’d done good by her, the best we ever could. How we’d given her a life to be envious of. Loved her to a degree she’d never considered possible. And how when it counted, we’d fought so hard for her, poured all of our energy and earnings into making the world supply justice to her, even if we didn’t win in the end. Sometimes you don’t get to decide who wins, sometimes fairness isn’t the largest factor in the outcome. I stare into her eyes, brushing her snout with gentle fingers, and I think of those paws up on all those railings, all out across the world, looking out at the grandeur, sniffing the air up, gulping the air with a panting tongue, and I know that experience will carry on for as long as I’m around. There is nothing left to do but hold her tight now, to feel the sorrow and absorb the sadness. It is a part of our relationship. There is nothing left to do but remember the time of our lives as we’d shared it together, and then try to move on for whatever lies ahead of us in our destined tomorrows. I think of how she’d gotten into the van and gotten out. All of those times. Over and over. Charley was always interested in the next thing, the next place, and I’m certain she’ll be up for whatever adventure awaits her. I can only hope we might a way to feel the same way.