Petey's Best Friend, Kari.
In the fifth grade, my best friend and I decided to declare our friendship through iron-on t-shirts. It was the early eighties and t-shirt shops were still all the rage, at least to a ten-year-old. I remember it like it was yesterday, rows and rows of sparkly letters just waiting to be chosen. I could put whatever I wanted on a shirt and then put it on my body, sharing all my thoughts with the world. Years later I’d have the same feeling when I got my first tattoo. But as a kid, it was empowering. Standing in front of Star Wars, Camaro, and Mr. Bill transfers, I suddenly felt emblazoned to make my own choices. And I chose a light pink V-neck t-shirt with white stripes on the arms and sparkly white letters.
Thinking back on it now, I probably didn’t choose the color. I was more into bright, primary colors, but we were growing up. I’d just gotten boobs. Tiffany had just gotten boobs, too, and was one of the only other girls I knew who had a training bra. She also had blonde, curly hair, no glasses, was taller than me and could toss a baton and catch it, something I hadn’t mastered, yet. We practiced for hours in her backyard, the smell of freshly cut grass and lightning bugs all around us as we twirled into the night. It was only the end of the school year, but we were already practicing for the Jaycee Jamboree, the yearly Labor Day parade that wound through downtown and ended with a pageant and a carnival. But the next morning, fueled by plenty of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, we ended up in the t-shirt shop, ready to change our lives.
On the front, my t-shirt said “Tiffany’s Best Friend” in glittery bubble letters, and on the back, like a sports jersey, it said “Kari.” Tiffany’s shirt was identical, but also opposite: it said: “Kari’s Best Friend” on the front and “Tiffany” on the back. The next Monday we proudly wore our shirts to school with our hair in ponytails and pink curly ribbons, jeans, and confidence. I had tortoiseshell glasses, strawberry-blonde hair, and freckles, and Tiffany had perfect blonde curls and vision, but in the pictures of us together, we looked like members of a Charlie’s Angel’s squad of our own making. Together, we were killing it in math class, against dumb boys during recess, in gymnastics with our batons, and in life. Confidence. Verve. Joy. That’s what having a best friend does for you.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve had to make some medical decisions for my best friend, Petey Sellers. This was just about dental, but anyone who’s on the canine lymphoma journey knows it’s more than that. No decision is taken lightly. Every choice counts. We’d already pushed his procedure from January to April, but when I discovered that an anesthesiologist wasn’t booked for the surgery, we canceled. This started a cascade of not just pausing but re-evaluating.
Surgery would be invasive. Did he need it? And if he did, did it have to be now? What about his kidney disease and lymphoma? What about his nine-month remission, which could end in a year? What about his pain level, which we couldn’t see, but didn’t seem to be hindering his daily quality of life? And why did making this decision right now, so that we could snag the next appointment or have to wait three months, feel so emotional, unwieldy, and impossible?
As each doctor weighed in and more questions were answered, I spiraled even more. Every e-mail contained new information, every call carried a different opinion. When I tried to communicate with Petey, to ask him what he wanted, he had a different answer every time, too. When I got quiet and listened to myself, the same thing happened. Usually, our communication was clear, and action followed. When it was time to do chemo and save his life, we did it. When he tore his ACL when he was four and needed surgery, we did it. In 2018 when he broke some teeth, we did a dental cleaning that resulted in eight extractions. But something about this decision wasn’t letting me move forward.
A few days later, I realized that the timing of the dental was the same week that I’d been in the hospital for surgery in April 2020. This was two years later, but my body remembered, even if my brain had not. I cried every day. I spun and twisted. The more information and opinions I received, the more I couldn’t make a decision. One dentist was pushing for it, another was not. The oncologist was in favor, but Petey’s vet was not. I felt in shock, paralyzed by my emotions. But sometimes things happen so we can pause.
As it turned out, we wouldn’t need an anesthesiologist for the surgery, at least not yet. But that issue gave us a moment. When you get a dog through chemo treatments, you just want to exhale and live your best life for as long as possible. Did we really want to spend time and money we didn’t have on something that wasn’t an emergency? Or did we just want to go to the beach and be together? Petey lived with someone else in the spring of 2020 when I was in the hospital, and he was going through chemo in the spring of 2021. Was it too much to ask to have a normal spring, one with walks instead of recovery? Couldn’t we just enjoy our favorite season before the heat, UV, and smoky days flooded in? Until this point, we’d been living in the now. But this dental procedure was forcing me to think about his timeline. A future that, like all futures, was unknown.
Choosing not to fix something is a choice, too.
I’d been running around, thinking that making a choice meant doing the surgery, but that’s because I was used to fighting. Choosing chemo meant choosing to fight, something we’d done for him every day for six months straight. My brain was wired that way, now. When something was wrong, we fixed it. We didn’t say no or ignore it, we moved forward. It was the same thing I wish I had done in the fall of 2019 when I had a nagging pain on my right side. But Petey wasn’t me. And this wasn’t an appendix that would eventually burst. Even though there were similarities — he had a loose tooth that could abscess in the future, and I ended up with an abscess after my appendectomy –– this was not the same. And just like with Petey’s cancer-fighting supplements, sometimes less was more. Sometimes less was just enough.
It took a week of unfurling for me to separate my experience from Petey’s and process mine, again. For some reason, my body, specifically my scars, demanded that I lay my hands on myself, book some in-person physical therapy, and try some massage. To find my swimsuit and go for a gentle swim. To heal the part of my body that hadn’t fully healed yet, not emotionally, because I’d been mostly alone for two years. During that time, I put my hands on Petey at least a few times a week with Reiki and massage. But sometimes, to fully heal from trauma, you need someone else to put their hands on you, too. For you to put your hands on yourself. The continual exhale.
After a week of back-and-forth, advocating, asking questions, and finally getting answers, Petey’s team got on the same page and, due to kidney, lymphoma, and financial concerns, they recommended a middle ground. When they called and told me about this new, conservative decision, I laughed. Because now I was the one who had to get on the same page. I had decided that, if he was in pain, we’d do the surgery. Luckily, they wanted to try one more thing before we jumped in. Petey would do a course of antibiotics and pain meds, one he already used periodically for arthritis, and we’d watch him and do a dental recheck. We could decide then, not now. And even if he still needed the procedure, it wouldn’t happen immediately. We’d have time to enjoy spring, to go to the beach, to be together. Like standing in the t-shirt shop, all of a sudden we had choices, our whole lives spread out before us like iron-on transfers hanging on a wall.
I wish Petey Sellers and I could have those t-shirts. Except both of our shirts would be UV-protective so we could flaunt our best friend-dom all summer long. We’d wear those shirts proudly, on walks as he pranced around, in love with the world. Kari’s Best Friend, Petey. Petey’s Best Friend, Kari.
But really, this project is our t-shirts.
Here, through these pieces, I’m sharing our best friend-dom. Petey knows when I’m writing about him and smiles. I sit beside him on the couch the night before we post, finding photos, reading out loud, petting him, and listening to music. Our connection is so strong that I believe he knows when we post, but I also tell him – hey! We shared your story today! You helped people! When I say that, he waltzes around, head held high, marching in his very own parade. Petey and I, our squad of two, courageous and strong, confident and brave, twirling our batons deep into the night.
Lift your baton and twirl, friend. You’re now a part of our squad, too.
Art: T-shirt!
When Petey was going through his last month of chemo, I made him his very own t-shirt. It said: “You’re Doing So Good!” In addition to being members of our squad, we also think you’re awesome. Whether you’re going through chemo with your dog or just emerging from your winter cave and into spring, You’re Doing So Good! Really, you are. Give yourself a walk, some flowers, a break. We heart you.
The Morris Foundation Fundraiser + How to Support Us
Thanks to a new yearly subscriber, I was able to send a donation to The Morris Foundation. Thank you! In the spirit of giving, I also matched it. I’m going to continue that this month. I don’t have a paywall, as I love to keep these open for others on the canine chemo journey to read, but if you read and enjoy, please consider subscribing.
For friends who have asked how they can help support us, consider doing a paid subscription. There are different levels, and there’s even the “other subscription options.” Click that and give a gift of your choosing. You can also share the Petey Sellers Society with others! Petey wants to share the love with as many people as possible, so please, pass it on.
Happy spring!
xoxo, Kari and Petey Sellers
