A Psychic Love Story
A psychic once told me that the love of my life would be named Peter.
It was 2007, and we were having a phone session to talk about my writing career. The psychic was in California and I was in Portland in the Crooked House, a place nicknamed for its vertigo-inducing architecture. We were almost finished with the call when the psychic blurted it out, a surprising love prediction with a name attached. She also told me I’d have a TV series based on my young adult novel, something in the spirit of The Patty Duke Show, which, if you know me, seems totally plausible, even if it hasn’t happened, yet.
For years after that, every time I met a man named Peter, I wondered, could this be the one? Peters were everywhere – online, in bars, in the ad industry – even my sister’s carpenter was named Peter. But none of them were likely candidates. I had plenty of love in my life with other names, so eventually, I stopped thinking about it.
And then, three years later, I watched Return of the Pink Panther.
I was with my boyfriend at the time, a lovely, energetic person who shared my wacky sense of humor. We’d just moved in together and were watching a movie in bed, laptop propped on our laps. Inspector Clouseau was attempting to crack the case (again) when my boyfriend spoke.
“We should get a dog,” he said. “And name him Peter Sellers.”
“Yes!” I said, sitting up. “But let’s call him Petey Sellers because he's a puppy.”
We smiled and snuggled into each other, feeling our future spreading out before us as our favorite actor bumbled on screen.
Two weeks later, Petey Sellers appeared.
It wasn’t magic, my boyfriend started looking for dogs the next day, but he found one pretty quickly on Craigslist, a Boston Terrier/Australian Shepard mix. But when we got to the Claim Jumper parking lot off of I-205, we were met with a station wagon full of puppies who were anything but those breeds.
“That's not a Boston Terrier,” my boyfriend said, cradling a tiny tan and white puppy in his hands. “Not at all.” He handed the puppy to me, an 11-week old nugget who fit perfectly in my palm. That dog looked up at me with his big, brown, eyelinered-eyes and floppy ears and that was it. We belonged to each other. “Hello, Petey Sellers,” I said, kissing him on the head. And then I looked at the woman. “We’ll take him!” I said before my boyfriend could negotiate. I had the world’s best dog in my hands, whatever breed he was, and I knew it. As my boyfriend pulled into the Burgerville drive-thru on the way home to get the puppy a snack, I saw that he knew it, too.
We fell in love hard – with the dog.
We both worked a lot, my boyfriend owned a thriving new business and I was a writer juggling an ad career, but since I worked from home, the puppy raising fell to me. I took Petey Sellers on walks, to puppy kindergarten, socialized him at the pet store next door, and attempted to train him. Petey was a good dog with an exuberant spirit and I was a new Mom, not used to the sleep deprivation that comes with raising a puppy, but he was family now – and I was up for the challenge. Plus, we loved the same things! Walking, doing tricks, playing, and being silly, in general. From the moment he came home, Petey Sellers was pure joy, a smiling, curious bundle of optimism and happiness, caramel brown with big, floppy ears, a white chest, dark eyes with smoky eyeliner, a wrinkled forehead, and one white paw, just like Michael Jackson with his glove.
Having a dog changed my life.
It didn’t change the romantic relationship, that didn’t survive, but the Original Dad and I are still friends, held together by our love for Petey Sellers. Over the past decade, Petey and I have bought a house; published our first book; had hundreds of hikes, walks, beach trips, and backyard hangs with my family and nephews, who he loves more than anyone. We even lived with kids for a while, so he got to experience the joy of an eleven-year-old boy, full-time. (He liked the Dad and the sister, too, but boys know how to play.) During this time, I’ve written three other books, countless essays, and stories with him at my side; taken morning walks before slipping into my writing world, and play breaks before slipping into my advertising world. I’ve created a writer’s life based around a dog's life. I’ve also had a handful of different relationships since adopting Petey Sellers, but he’s navigated all of them with ease, barking at some suitors, snuggling with others, but always showing up to give me his opinion, making sure that everyone knew that loving me included loving him. We’re family. That’s never been clearer than this past year.
On March 18, 2020, a few weeks into lockdown, I went to Urgent Care with a stomachache and ended up having an appendectomy. It was a simple procedure that turned complicated, giving me sepsis, a second surgery, and a long hospital stay. Petey went to live with my most recent ex (and the boy!) for six weeks. It was the longest we’d ever been apart, but I couldn’t walk to the kitchen, much less take care of a dog. When Petey came back, I swore we’d never be apart for that long again. That dog became my nurse, showing patience as I gained strength for longer walks, comforting me when I was in pain, and acting silly when I took things too seriously. As the pandemic marched on, we became our own bubble, truly isolated due to my weakened immune system. So, we made our own fun. I wrote and sang him daily songs; did Friday Night Dance parties; and when I tried online yoga, pranayama, and dance classes, he tried them, too. I was so happy to be alive and we were so happy to be together, isolation didn’t seem so bad.
But then, in November, he started to cough.
I thought he was suffering from September’s wildfires, smoky air that was so bad, Portland had the worst air quality in the world, at one point. But when I took him to the vet, they diagnosed kidney disease. An ultrasound at Dove Lewis showed that his kidneys were okay, but revealed something else: he had masses in his abdomen and swollen lymph nodes all over his body. We’d survived accidents and bad relationships, recent surgery and being apart, almost a year in isolation, and a deadly disease that had stopped the world in its tracks.
Could we survive this?
In early December, a biopsy confirmed it: lymphoma. We got in with an oncologist in January, but I pushed to get us seen, sooner. Luckily, a spot opened up in late December and we took it. I sat in the freezing car while Petey was inside, wearing an orange fleece that looked like a muscle shirt. When the oncologist called, she said three words – acute lymphoblastic lymphoma. “He’s a good candidate for chemotherapy, though,” she said. “It’s not as hard for dogs as it is for humans. Without treatment, the survival rate is about six weeks.” I remember sitting in the freezing car running numbers and scenarios, trying to make a decision, happy that Petey was inside where it was warm.
Our relationship has been one of the most rewarding, stable relationships in my life. I've always been an animal girl, intuitive, sensitive, and attuned to the natural world. Before Petey, I had cats and they were wonderful, but this was different. Petey had a huge personality and loved me fiercely. He was my little Buddha, playmate, assistant editor, and most of all, my friend. That’s the gift that dogs give us. At that moment in a car so cold I could see my breath, I knew I had to do something. And not just for me, not just because I didn’t want to be alone during the pandemic, but for him. Petey Sellers had saved me countless times. It was my turn to return the favor.
I wrapped the blanket tightly around myself, turned on the heater, closed my eyes, and checked in with him. “Are you ready to go?” I asked. His answer was immediate and clear. “No!” he said. “I’m not ready! I want the treatment! Please get me to summer!” I laughed. Petey wanted to feel the sun on his face and see friends, again. He wanted to get through the pandemic, just like the rest of us. So on December 29, 2020, with the Full Moon in Cancer, Petey started chemotherapy treatments.
I think we’re meant to have many great loves in this life. One of those loves can be music; it can be writing or art; friends who are like family; or a partner and kids. If you’re lucky, it can also be a dog. They’ll take you on journeys you never thought possible, ones written in the stars, and help you uncover the best parts of yourself so you can share them with others.
The TV show hasn’t happened yet, and chemo treatments were challenging at times, but Petey’s in remission for now. We saved his life, which bought us time to be together. We got him to summer! And even though we’re still in the pandemic, we’re still here, taking walks in the morning, basking in the sunshine before it turns to rain, being forever grateful, and savoring every moment while we can. That’s what you do with the love of your life, even if, especially if, it’s a dog.
Welcome to the Petey Sellers Secret Society!
I started writing essayettes (mini essays!) every Wednesday that Petey had chemo treatments as a way to stay grounded and process my feelings while he was at the vet. I also couldn’t find anything that offered me the comfort or humor I needed, so I wrote it myself. After joining an online Facebook Group, I realized other people needed those same things, too. I’ll post new essays every few weeks, starting with the greatest hits of the journey and catching up to where we are, now. Some of these pieces are about parts of canine chemotherapy, but ultimately, they’re all about love, caring for each other, playing, and living through a pandemic. Petey Sellers, my trusty assistant editor, sincerely hopes these essays help. Thanks for joining us!
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