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Stories of the Heart
Friday, November 11, 2005
Marley & Me has been out for about three weeks now. Sales are going really well -- far beyond my expectations. I never dreamed I'd come out of the gate at #10 on The New York Times Bestseller List, and still be there three weeks later.
One of the great joys of having the book out there is I've been hearing from a lot of other dog lovers who have read Marley & Me and wanted to share their own stories. Many of those stories are on the "Share Your Stories" page of my website.
Most letters are coming into my website email box. I'm surprised (a little) to hear how many people have dogs just like Marley -- or at least close runners-up for the title of "World's Worst Dog." And I've been moved by your stories of having to say farewell to your own beloved pets.
I wanted to share one such letter here because it touched me when I read it. It comes from a nurse in southern New Jersey:
Recently, facing surgery and a recuperative period at home, my family asked me if there was anything that I would like to have to "keep me busy". I'm a labor and delivery nurse. In addition to my three 12 hour shifts, I also do per diem and agency nursing at other hospitals. A normal work week for me is usually 50-60 hours. The thought of being home for five or six weeks was frightening, I was afraid I'd lose my mind.
Waiting for me at home when I arrived home was a copy of "Marley & Me". An avid dog freak, (I have four and foster rescue dogs), I was looking forward to reading about a dog that sounded very much like my almost 15 year old Brittany Spaniel. The dog possessed absolutely no manners, and knew just what pushed all of our buttons, but a more devoted companion never existed. Britt-Knee (original, huh?) had been suffering a variety of symptoms related to old age; deafness, arthritis, and more recently, seizures, but she kept plowing along. The dishwasher was never opened that she didn't stick her head in to lick whatever residual was left behind. She continued to climb into the shower as soon as it was vacated to lick the drain (sometimes not waiting until you had stepped out), and then track paw prints across the white ceramic floor tile. She'd drink your morning coffee from your cup as soon as you turned you back, and then return the favor by belching in your face. We loved her.
Britt was waiting for me on the sofa when I came home from the hospital. She lifted her head and licked me with her extremely unpleasant breath, but who noticed? She followed me to bed and took her place at my feet, satisfied in knowing that her "mom" was home with her.
Around four a.m. the following morning she started to shake violently with another seizure. As I held her, as I had done a half dozen times before, she moaned. This was something new, she never seemed as if she were in pain. No sooner had the seizure ended when another began. And then another. It was at this time that we knew we had to finally do what we had postponed three weeks prior. A frantic drive ensued on a Saturday morning to University of Pennsylvania Veterinary Hospital from South Jersey. Still in my pajamas, I cradled my sweet dog in my lap, her body being wracked with one convulsion after another. She struggled to draw oxygen into her lungs. I held her, as I have my other pets, as the vet pushed the medication through her IV. And then she was gone.
I was only able to pick up your book last Friday, and then was unable to put it down. As I read Marley's story, I recalled all the stunts that my Britt had pulled, and why we loved her so much. Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to laugh about "the worlds worst dog" and remember the one who ran a close second.
Sincerely, Audrey B.
Aw, Audrey, thank you for your beautiful letter and for sharing with me your final moments with your beloved Britt. I mean it literally when I tell you I feel your pain. These animals sneak into our hearts and don't let go. The hardest part of having a dog isn't the gouged floors and wrecked lawns and slashed curtains -- it's saying goodbye. I hope my book offered you some smiles, comfort and community.
posted by John Grogan at 6:00 PM
 
1 Comments:
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Audrey,
Reading your story made me cry all over again for my beloved 1st Yorkie, Rocket, who died in my arms on a convertible ride home from the park where he took his last walk. Rocket had the rare blood disease lymphangectasia. He weighed only 3.5 pounds but he fought it with everything in him. Between trips to the emergency room for fainting spells, his return to his normal feisty, rambunctious self convinced his docs that no, it was not time to put him to sleep.
On that awful last day, after a walk during which he stopped a couple of times and looked up at me with uncharacteristically plaintive eyes, he rested calmly in my arms in the car on the way home. Suddenly he sat bolt upright; let out the saddest, most desperate strangled moaning sound I've ever heard (I later learned that's what "keening" means); and then collapsed, no longer breathing. Seconds later, I felt his tiny heart stop beating beneath my fingers. Later we found that he'd died of a blood clot in his heart, caused by the disease.
It was the saddest day of my life so far. I didn't think I'd ever recover ... how do they get us to love them SO completely?
Not believing I'd ever be able to bear owning a dog again after losing Rocket, for fear I'd have to feel that deep wrenching pain again, eight years later I'm owned by 3 more Yorkies AND a Lhasa Apso.
Somewhere I read that the best way to honor a dog you loved and lost is by showing them that you'll never again be able to live without a dog in your life. That helped me realize that getting more dogs didn't mean Rocket was forgotten; it meant that I loved him so much that I had to have that kind of love in my life always.
Your story of Britt-Knee touched me just as Marley's story did. I wish you all the best as you continue on with your other dogs. God bless you for fostering and adopting.
Laurie