A Street Mutt’s Final Steak

A pawsitive journey across the furry rainbow bridge

That’s Chela. Her tongue sticks out because she’s sassy, and probably because she lost a lot of her teeth.

This past Friday, I walked my old girl down the canine Green Mile. Well, hobbled might be a more accurate description for my sassy-pantsed dawg since she was almost 17 human years old. She passed peacefully in my arms, in a process that was happy right up until I got the bill and started bawling.

It wasn’t the bill that made me bawl, I just couldn’t hold it together to the parking lot like I planned.

‘Hey Robin, I came here for comedy and this is giving me a case of the sads already…’

I don’t know what to tell you, it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

I’m a pawsitive person, and I see the light and humor in nearly every situation. But this day through my comedic heart for a loop. It reminded me that it’s ok to be sad sometimes too. Nobody can be cheerful consistently 24/7. Unless you’re an absolute fucking psycho. And I’m only a part-time psycho, with full-time asspirations.

Chela’s passing marks the end of an era for me. She was my best friend for nearly two decades. I gave her the best years of my life, she gave me all the years of hers.

The years were nothing short of epic, but the final months were rough.

For the last month, there was a lot of hobbling. First, it was hers, then it was mine — because rocking a mixed connective tissue disease and carrying a 50-lb dog is a surprisingly volatile body cocktail.

So now I’m entering a process of healing, both emotionally and physically. I knew the grief would be tough, but what I wasn’t expecting was the guilt. The guilt about life being easier, when I’m not ushering her around all day. Nobody tells you about that part, maybe because it’s not something we’re supposed to admit happens.

Taking care of a senior dog getting close to the end is hard. I suppose it’s that way for caring for any senior, but at least with her, I got to give her belly rubs to make myself smile. I doubt my mom will feel the same way one day. Or maybe she will, she’s a quirky one.

I’m certainly not happy she’s gone, even if my sore back is. I miss her already.

I swear she’s happier than she looks.

In between breaks of hideous crying (it’s like ugly crying but with more boogers) I had my first ‘oh yeah, she’s not here moment’. I emptied a bucket of ice cream into my piehole and went to give her the bucket to lick — but she wasn’t there. Yes, I ate almost the whole thing. No, it wasn’t already nearly empty. And that was after a large dinner plate full of chicken nuggies.

She generally gets a bit of all my food, so I’m already preparing to gain 10lbs.

‘Robin, you can’t eat your feelings’.

Maybe you can’t. I’m gonna try. Plus, everyone knows calories don’t count when you’re grieving your dog, they take the calories with them. If you’re looking for the science to back that up, there is none, dogs are magic.

‘Ehrrmm, Robin, you have another plate licker don’t you?’

Yes, but even after 5 years she still thinks I’m trying to poison her. Or just doesn’t really care about people food. The Jury’s still out on that one. Weirdo.

They never got along super well, Chela thought Cora was annoying. They can’t even ying and yang correctly.

I have two very different dogs. Cora looks like she’s doing you a favor taking food from you; Chela would stare into your soul and put a voodoo curse on you until you gave her some. She could find food anywhere.

Back when we lived in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico (where she was born, probably to a long line of canine hoochies), we’d walk down the main pedestrian avenue where all the restaurants had patios. She walked off leash and would go from cafe to cafe, sponging food from the tourists.

One time, she got steak and lobster.

That night I ate 50-cent tacos.

Back here in Canada, she once found a taco…a football field away…buried in snow. She truly missed her calling as one of those drug-sniffing airport dogs.

She was surprisingly discerning for a Mexican street mutt though. I’d ask her if she wanted bacon, but she’d give me the side eye as if to say, ‘Mom, my species can find a balloon of cocaine up someone’s arse from a half mile away — I know that’s a Beggin’ Strip, not bacon’.

Apart from the varied high-end diet of international delicacies — and whatever trash she found on the street (because you can take the dog out of the street but not the street out of the dog), she lived an epic life. She traveled more than most people do in their lifetimes. And had my work-at-home-before-it-was-cool ass beside her 24/7. When I wasn’t working at home, we were out and about because PDC Mexico is awesome and you can take your dog almost anywhere.

She went everywhere without a leash, sometimes going on a brief walkabout before returning. But often never losing sight of me.

She was as quiet and peaceful as she was independent. She’d sit patiently outside any stores she wasn’t allowed in, while people stared in awe at how ‘well trained she was’. Was she? Or was I so well trained that I’d go into the store to buy her things while she waited like a diva outside?

She was a rockstar right up until the very end.

This time last year, she still went on 4 km hikes (I’m too lazy to google how many freedom yards that is) with me. Then it decreased to 1km or less. And over the last couple of months, her walks were short in distance but long in time.

A funny thing happened though, the day before ‘that final vet visit’, she really pepped up. The sun was shining, the snow was gorgeous and we went on a nice long walk. Although, perhaps this was partially due to the fistful of pain meds I was throwing at her by this point.

On that final day, she was hopped up on pain meds and strawberry and cheese danishes

Which is also how I’d like to go out.

Then she had back-to-back, medium-rare Ossobuco steaks, alongside liver treats and cookies. The human cookies, because she no longer had to worry about her weight. Oh wait, that was me.

Her last days were lovely. Especially since I Jedi-mind-wiped all the incontinence accidents from my mind. And she passed peacefully in my arms, with a belly full of meat and treats.

It’s the end of a 17-year era.

This berserk blue marble keeps spinning, and life goes on — whether you’re hurting or not. And now life is just me and crazy pants (and Mike, and his own furry maniac).

It’s the circle of life, except I’m not Simba-ing Cora above my head on Pride Rock like Rafiki did. I’m not a batshit crazy monkey, and like Scar said, “Forgive me for not leaping for joy. Bad back, you know.”

Good news though Cora — you’ve been promoted to Top Dawg!

To which her response was apparently, ‘How about comfortably upside down dawg?’

Fine, we’ll have to settle on Top(sy turvy) Dawg.

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I love Cora (aka ‘Crazy Pants’, aka ‘Happy Feet’ due to this little happy shuffle dance she does) with all my heart. She’ll keep my heart open, even as it tries to collapse under the weight of losing Chela. That’s simply what dogs do, live, laugh, and love — always relishing in the moment.

And I have a lifetime of moments with Chela, from the life we built together.

I know she’s up there in Doggy Heaven (I heard somewhere that all dogs go to heaven), at that big Brazilian steakhouse in the sky, saving me a seat. Until then, me and the upside-down dog will hold down the fort here. Basking in the happy memories she left behind…because in times of incredible grief, the happy moments are your lifeboat.

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For my regular readers who know I’m normally more Little Miss Fucking Sunshiney than this, thank you for granting me this grace today. For new peeps discovering me, I pinky promise I’m funnier than this most days. Just not today.

But my new guy Mike gave me a ‘potato of positivity’, to help me through this time. It made me smile for the first time, and is helping me grab life by the…potatoes.

Life isn’t always sunshine and unicorns. Sometimes, it’s rainbow bridges and tear-stained pages.

But the sun will come out tomorrow, just as it did on Chela’s final walk.

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