9 minute read
Strays by Ashley Tunnell
WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories
Strays by Ashley Tunnell
Mickey and Reno:
Brothers. German Shepherds.
Temperament: Intelligent, loyal, protective.
The doctor called them “bad breeds” and lectured you on the dangers of introducing dangerous animals to your toddler-aged sons. They slept at the foot of each child’s bed until the boys grew into teenagers. They lived long and healthy lives, but as is the case with all living things, Mickey and Reno died. You told me that you cried as you buried them by the old tree at the edge of the woods. Watching an animal die was something I managed to keep off my list of life experiences for thirty years. I have heard it changes a person, and I know now how true that is.
Rikki and Nikki:
Sisters. Wolves.
Temperament: Intelligent, territorial, aloof.
Rikki and Nikki were beautiful creatures with paws the size of dinner plates. You rescued the runts after their pack abandoned them, and they loved you. They tolerated everyone else. You did not know how to just tolerate people. You loved hard and saw the best in so many. There is an intelligence in a wolf’s eyes that I have yet to see in any other animal. The look in your eyes is something I will never forget. It is something that still lingers behind my closed eyelids and leads to morbid curiosities and unanswered questions. I believe you saw something. Maybe you saw everything before you saw nothing.
Trixie:
Mutt.
Temperament: hyperactive.
You mistook her for a mud puddle and nearly ran over her with your car. I am still not entirely convinced that she was not a puddle of mud. You brought her home and nursed her back to health. I believed the hospice nurse was there to nurse you back to health. She told me to alternate your morphine and alprazolam so you would be comfortable.
“I need an exact amount to give her. I don’t want her to overdose,” I said.
She placed her hand on my arm and told me comfort was your treatment now. But what this nurse did not understand was that I had magic chicken broth, and I was going to save you. Before you stopped speaking, you said it helped, and I would have gone to your house every day to feed you chicken broth if I could have heard you say just one more thing.
Beebee:
German Shepherd.
Temperament: Brave, loyal, intelligent.
Shepherds are curious creatures. The first time I met Beebee, she fell over when I scratched her ears. I loved her immediately. Historically, shepherds are herding dogs who tackle their job of rounding up sheep with the sort of pride only dogs can exhibit. Beebee did not live on a farm and herd sheep. Beebee lived in a small home in the Appalachian Mountains and spent her days shepherding people. Years before you got sick, she gathered us in the living room and told us with the steady thumping of her tail on the floor that she was quite proud of the family she had assembled. Beebee’s family gathered in the living room for what would be the last time. We were all together, and I think that made you happy. My relief was tangible, but my guilt was heavy. Fixing you was my job. I had been holding everything together for this long; I should have been able to do it on my own. My guilt grew heavier as I wondered how long my misplaced optimism kept children from their mother. Time is something that I owe them, and time is something that I can never give them.
Dolly:
Mutt.
Temperament: Skittish.
You first saw Dolly at a truck yard. She hid beneath a truck while you counted her ribs and tried to win her over with a Ziplock bag full of bacon. Food has a way of breaking the ice between strangers, but bacon is on a different level. Bacon ends wars and solves problems. After some hesitation, Dolly abandoned her hiding spot and took her place at your side. She stayed there until a doctor’s visit uncovered a cancer diagnosis and a death sentence. There was just not enough bacon in the world to fix you or Dolly.
Red and Blue:
Great Pyrenees. Brothers.
Temperament: gentle giants.
Red and Blue were massive. Roughly 160 pounds - EACH. Walking these creatures that you rescued from the shelter was not an adequate form of exercise. We should have placed saddles on their backs and ridden them. When we walked them, our feet never touched the ground. When you walked them, they stood beside your 80-pound frame and your shoulders stayed firmly in their sockets. Red and Blue lived and died as brothers. At the end of the day, they curled up on their spots by the air conditioning vents, and that argument over who had custody of the chew toy was forgotten. Your sons forgot their disagreements too as we all made small talk. We tried to keep things light despite the elephant in the room that was roughly the size of a hospice bed.
She was sharing a memory of the two of you and kept referring to you in the past tense. I was still in denial and believed wholeheartedly that you were going to get better. Truthfully, I wanted her to fight back and argue because I was angry, and I wanted someone to be angry with. I was angry at her, and that was not fair. I was angry at you, but despite what I told myself, you were no longer there.
“Is…not was,” I snapped. “She is still right here. Stop talking about her like she’s not.”
My outburst was punctuated by a deafening silence before she took my hand.
“Is,” she said.
It is funny - until that moment, they were just my husband’s brother and his wife. Strange the things we will bond over. I do not think my sister realized how much she meant to me in those last few days. I hope one day I can tell her…like really tell her.
Zoe:
Belgium Tervuren.
Temperament: Loyal, Intelligent, protective.
Zoe was trained as a service animal, and I remember how proud you were when she “graduated” from the program. You showed off her certificate like it was a doctorate from Harvard. She performed her duties and gave you emotional support in ways I will never fully understand. You knew you did not have much time left; yet I never saw you afraid. You were ready and just wanted to make sure we were ready, too.
Zoe had her head resting on your legs in the hospice bed. I think she knew before I did. She whined, and it was unlike any sound I had ever heard. Dogs are too good for this world. You were too good for this world, too. I went outside and did not need to say anything to the others. Everyone knew. The overly cheerful hospice pamphlet, which had the nurse’s phone number scrawled on the inside of its first page, was in my hands.
“I can’t see…why can’t I see?”
I did not recognize my own voice at first. It was only after the hospice pamphlet and my phone were gently taken from my hands that I realized the voice was mine. The world was chaos, and for a moment, so was I. I sat on the floor of the dimly lit kitchen, and I fell apart. I was supposed to fix you. Someone held me, and I do not know if they realized it at the time, but it felt as though their arms were physically holding me together. While I was sitting on the floor, all I could think about was that bottle of wine you bought me at Thanksgiving and the irony of it being me who drank it all. Not even a year prior, I sat in that exact same spot, giggling, singing, and telling you how much I loved you while you cooked your famous turkey. Zoe helped you control your anxieties and fears of the unknown, but there was nothing she could do for the control freak with a penchant for trying to fix broken things.
Me:
Daughter. Human.
Temperament: Grieving.
The smell of stale cigarettes and pet dander that once permeated the house have faded to become barely noticeable background noise. The things that once irritated me have become things I would happily bear if it meant getting to have one more conversation with you. I think about that day often. The normalcy juxtaposed by death. We ate tasteless chips and salsa; we covered you with a sheet. We did laundry, cleaned up the dishes, and talked to men in shiny suits from the funeral home. I think of you often too and have slowly come to realize something. I was never the one that fixed people. I was never the one that held everyone together. That was always you. This was always your story, and I was happy to be even an insignificant chapter in it. I think of the others, too. I did not always know how to ask if they were okay, but I am learning. Getting people to open up without really trying was always something you were naturally good at. You left, and it feels like there is still this hole where you should be. We are all these half-written stories left abandoned on an unfinished bookshelf. The world seems colder since you left it because it was kinder when you were in it. Wherever you are now, I believe you are still fixing people and taking in strays. I used to joke with you about the strays you took in. Not just dogs. People too. Superficial stuff was irrelevant to you. All that mattered was what was in their hearts. At their core, were they a good person? Somehow you always knew. You saw the best in so many people. That is what I love the most about you and what I choose to remember about you today. I bet you have a house full of strays now. Thank you for allowing me to be one of them, if only for a moment.
