The Very Best Dog.
“Pockets of joy!”
That’s one of the last things Petey Sellers said as we wrote in my office together for the last time. I didn’t know it was the last time, but also, I knew. It was Monday, August 22nd, 2:30 p.m. I looked at him, stretched out in his bed, and declared: we’re working on the book! Usually, I’d continue with clients, but something told me to claim those hours, moments for memories, space for our dreams. Petey was there for it, smiling and ready to connect like we always did. Like we’d been doing for the past twelve years.
We’d just settled in when I heard him say it: “pockets of joy!” At first, I thought he was talking about the book, so I grabbed an aqua marker and scribbled the phrase in bubble letters. It was a good note from my good editor. But when I looked down at him, his golden fur dappled with sunlight, I realized he was talking about me. He was my pocket of joy. He was all my pockets of joy. What would I do without him?
We spent the weekend before at Urgent Care.
I won’t go into detail, since Petey Sellers was a gentleman, but when he went outside that morning, a problem he’d had for a month, one that usually resolved itself, didn’t. On Saturday, a nice triage nurse saw us within an hour (instead of three) and sent us away to manage at home. But when it was worse on Sunday, another Urgent Care made space to see him. At the very least, they could fix it for the moment, make sure he was comfy, and get us to Monday. I hated leaving Petey there for four hours, but when I dropped him off, I acted like he was going for a playdate. “See you later, buddy!” I said. “Make some friends! Enjoy the A.C.!” I cried all the way home. But when I picked him up, he was happy. They fixed it, and he felt better. Sure, I had to monitor him every few hours, but it was more annoying for him than anything else. After dinner, we had a chat. “I love you,” I said, rubbing his ears. “No matter what happens, I promise to be calm and stay grounded so I can take care of you, okay?” Petey Sellers smiled, in approval. Things seemed to be failing him, seemingly small things, but added together, they were big.
Monday morning we went to the Park Blocks. That’s the photo at the top of this post, Petey smiling, looking satisfied under a bright blue sky. It was too hot and far for him to walk, so we drove. I got him out of the car and let him roam, off-leash, sniffing and peeing on trees, wandering like he always did. This is where I trained him to walk beside me, so when there were no other dogs, he had the space to roam, off-leash. I ran to the middle of the block. “Petey, come!” I shouted. He looked up and trotted toward me, smiling. I hadn’t seen him run like that in a week. “I can do it,” he seemed to be saying. “See? I’ve still got it!” As I fed him treats and wiped tears from my eyes, I revisited the rest of his Park Block games, ones we’d been playing since he was a puppy. Treat Tree, where I hid treats and he found them, and his other favorite. “Heel!” I said, brightly, as he pranced along beside me. “Good boy,” I said, tossing him treats. “Such a good boy.” When we got to the top, we turned around and trotted down the hill, together.
That night I couldn’t sleep.
And not just because I had to check him every few hours, but because, as I watched his chest rise and fall, I worried. Would Petey make it through the night? Was he prepared for his journey? And did he know, really know, how I felt about him?
I got up, went to the couch, and wrote him a letter.
In my sketchpad, I drew a picture of us, connected by a rainbow, and wrote him a letter around it. I told him how I felt, thanked him, and let him know that it was okay and that he shouldn’t be scared to transition. He had lots of ancestors who were excited to greet him on the other side! And then, because he’s Petey, I made him a Hapterlife Kit – a collection of things to take with him for a happy afterlife.
This was something I created in my second book – the main character makes one for her mom – and I wanted to do the same for Petey. So, I gathered organic things that could go with him: the letter; his Trooper and Best Friend drawings; a small pebble from the beach; a little wooden heart; and paper flowers in bright colors. On the day I’d bring real flowers, orange Gerber daisies I’d already bought. And then I wrote a list of what I wanted to do for his ceremony so I wouldn’t forget. I hung the bag by the door, checked on Petey, slipped into bed beside him, and slept, hard, until the alarm went off again.
The next morning, we gave each other our hearts.
We were doing our normal meditation, Petey on the lounge, flanked by a sloth and a squirrel, and me, sitting on my yoga mat in front of him. As I did the cave of the heart meditation, I saw Petey and I approach the altar, turn, and extend our hearts to each other, one in a hand, and one in a paw. We took the hearts, which glowed like gems, and held them to our chests. In moments, our bodies absorbed them. His heart in mine, and mine in his. Afterward, we went for a walk. As soon as we hit the sidewalk, we saw them – Tiko and Malia! – at the end of the block. Petey trotted toward them, grinning. He and Tiko greeted each other, got treats, and then we walked them a few blocks. “He’s not doing great,” I said. “We’re headed for his cancer recheck. I’m so glad we saw you.” Petey got pets, treats, and time with his favorite friends. We had no idea, then, that it would be the last time.
As we walked up the sidewalk back to our house, Petey paused. It was sunny, and he just sat there, taking it in. Maybe he was watching Tiko walk away. Maybe he wanted to close his eyes and feel the sun on his face. Maybe he paused so I could take a picture, a photo that, when I looked back on it, said it all. “I love the world!” it said. “And everyone and everything in it!” Twelve years a Petey Sellers.
“It’s time.”
It’s the phrase you least want to hear from your oncologist, second only to “out of remission.” She’d taken Petey away for his exam and when they returned, Petey paraded in, wiggling his butt, just a bit slower than usual. Always the showman. As I petted him, she explained what was happening. The cancer wasn’t just affecting his lymph nodes, it had also spread to his eyes, infiltrating his conjunctiva, which was inflamed. It didn’t hurt, but that’s why his eyes were goopy, teary, and drooping; cancer had also spread to his booty, infiltrating the tissue so it couldn’t hold its shape or form, anymore. They fixed his prolapse for now, but it would keep happening. And then there were his lymph nodes. The one on the right was huge, and the one on the left was getting bigger, with others to follow. Despite our best efforts, the lymphoma was everywhere.
“Would you like to get him a burger, and take him to the park, first?” she said.
I looked at her in shock. I’d packed his Hapterlife Kit just in case, but I wasn’t prepared to use it. I needed time to process. I needed time with Petey.
“Could we have one more night?” I said. “Would that hurt him?”
“No, he’ll be fine,” she said, petting him and rubbing his ears. “Come back in the morning.” Petey wagged his tail at her, hamming it up. He loved her. He loved all his friends who helped him on his cancer journey: Dr. Kim and Katherine, Tammy and Rachel, Amy, and so many others who were always there to help. We’d been going there since December 2020. This was where he fought, got better, got worse, and kept fighting. It seemed natural that his journey would end where it began.
Back home, I texted friends and family to let them know what was happening and asked them to light a candle the next day. When our neighbors stopped by with their dog Keihly to say goodbye and bring me greens, I told them I was trying to figure out how to get Petey a burger for his last meal. She reminded me that Petey didn’t care what he ate – all he cared about was me. As I looked at him, smiling up at his friends, I was grateful for the reminder. This was sacred time. He was all I cared about, too.
I made our favorite meal – quinoa, kale, and eggies. He had his normal dinner and then I made a bowl for each of us. After eating his, he joined me on the couch for bites of mine – one for me, one for him. It’s something he’d loved since he was a puppy. When we moved and he had separation anxiety, a friend and animal communicator talked to him. We discovered that Petey Sellers loved three things: full-body hugs, being sung to, and when I ate out of a bowl. I laughed! I always ate out of a bowl, and always gave him bites. “Who’s the best boy?” I mused, feeding Petey another handful and laughing at the piece of quinoa stuck to his lip. He was the very best dinner companion, especially during the last few years.
“It’s time for your song!” I said, sitting at the piano while he lounged on the couch. “Petey Sellers is the very best dog,” I began, changing the lyrics for the last time. I recorded it, but that song’s just for us, the one with the huge sob at the end. I took him outside to wander in the yard at sunset; knelt in front of him, rubbing his ears as he sat on the couch; and massaged him all the places he liked best while we listened to music. When I stopped and looked up at him, he was gazing at me with so much love, it could have lit the entire world. “I love you, Mom,” he said. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I felt it. “I love you, I love you,” I said, sobbing. And then I folded my body over his and cried into his fur. Normally he hated it, but this night, he let me do it. It felt like he was crying, too. My heart was breaking. How could I let go of my beautiful friend? How could I let go of this beautiful life? I knew how. I could prepare him for something greater.
***
“Om Mani Padme Om,” I whispered in his ear as we went to bed. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes and grinned, like always. Always the last thing I saw before I went to sleep. Tonight, instead of saying three things I was grateful for, I only needed to say one: Petey Sellers. I was so thankful for him, for this life we’d created, and for the person I’d become with him, and because of him. I grabbed a stack of pages instead of the Percy Jackson book we’d been reading.
“Tonight, we’re reading from my book,” I said. “I know how much you like that.”
Petey opened his eyes and blinked before snuggling in, again. He was the only one who’d heard that entire book out loud, and I wanted those words he’d inspired, words written with him at my side, to be the last story he heard. Because it wasn’t just my story, it was our story. His energy and spirit were all over that book. After reading a few chapters, I leaned over and kissed him. “I’m not sure how, yet, but we’ll always be together,” I said. “The Dream Team, even if it’s only in our dreams.”
Sunlight streamed in and woke up us before the alarm. “Good morning!” I said, snuggling Petey in bed. “It’s fly away day!” Petey got up and did something he hadn’t done in a month – he ran to the living room and tossed his panda. “You want to play!” I said. “Yes!” We played panda and hide and seek, Crazy Eyes, and Horsey. We only had a few hours before we had to leave, but time slowed. It stretched out to meet us.
Outside, Petey paused and sat on the grass instead of coming back in. I went and knelt beside him. “Mom,” he said. “This is where we’ll talk in the mornings. I’ll be here. Don’t forget.” I gasped, but Petey just got up and walked inside. I went to make his breakfast, but something called me to him. He was sitting in his bed by the dining table. “Mom,” he said. “This is where we write in the mornings. I’ll be here. Don’t forget.” I paused and nodded, letting him know I’d heard him. When he got up again, I followed him to the yoga mat, which was in the living room. “Mom,” he said. “This is where you get grounded. I’ll be here. Don’t forget.” And then he walked to the office and sat in his bed. I followed with tears in my eyes. He was saying goodbye, room by room. “Mom,” he said as I knelt beside him, again. “When you’re ready, this is where you make magic. I’ll be here. Don’t forget.”
I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it all down. In the days to come, I’d cling to those instructions like a life raft, a prescription for survival. I’d planned to spend the morning preparing him, but in true Petey Sellers fashion, he prepared me, too.
We had breakfast and then settled in at the writing table. “Should we do one of your chapters?” I said, thinking of the new book I was writing that had him in it. We only had ten minutes, but that would be enough.
“No way!” he said, instead. “Let’s meditate!”
I laughed. In the busyness, I’d forgotten. I sat down beside him and closed my eyes. Petey put his paw on my knee and that’s when I saw him – his body, floating, surrounded by rainbow light. “Mom!” he said. “My aura is a rainbow!” Tears streamed down my cheeks. He was showing me his rainbow body. When I came out of meditation, the air sparkled around us, its energy electric. He looked so beautiful in the morning light. I took a few pictures, and then asked him a question.
“Petey!” I said. “Are you ready for your next adventure?”
Here was his answer.
Later, when I looked at it, I’d see the blue light behind him, windows already opening.
I made a quick video of him saying goodbye to my parents, who considered him their grand-dog. When I looked at it later, I realized Petey was also saying goodbye to me. I narrated the video like my voice was his. “Hi, Grandma and Grandpa!” I said. “I’m getting ready to go to the light!” In the video, Petey blinks, something he’d started doing that month to communicate with me. It meant yes, a confirmation. When he was confirming something special, though, he winked. “I love you, I love you,” I had him say. “I love you.” Petey looked directly at the camera, directly at me, and winked.
We said goodbye to the house, then the yard, and then we headed to pick up Andy, his original Dad. Andy drove so that I could sit in the backseat with Petey. We talked, having conversations like we always did, while Petey rested his head on my leg. Bowie drifted out of the speakers as we made the drive we’d made so many times, through so many seasons. A beginning, a remission, an ending.
On September 22, 2:30 p.m., when I sat at the desk in my office a month later, a conversation Petey and I had that Monday came rushing back. I’d forgotten about it, but there it was, flowing over me like waves, like currents, like muscle memory. I could almost see Petey sitting in his bed in the sun, head cocked, teardrop eyes full of hope. I found the conversation in my notebook. That afternoon, Petey told me he was ready to go.
“Mom!” Petey said. “I took care of you!”
“You did,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Mom, thank you for taking care of me!” he said. “But I think it’s almost time to stop taking care of me, now.”
“Wait, what?” I said.
“I think I might be getting ready,” he said. “But I want you to be ready, too. Is that okay? Can we talk later?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding through tears. “It’s okay.”
Whatever he wanted, however, he wanted it, was always okay by me.
Petey Sellers flew away peacefully outside in the memorial garden, bathed in sunshine, just like he liked. Nurses paraded by, praising his bravery and giving him treats; I sang his song while he smiled, always smiling until the end. There were hugs and mantras, loving pets and secrets whispered in his ear, ones only he could hear.
When it was time, Petey lay down on his favorite blanket under a bright blue sky. Birds circled and sang, overhead. I cradled him, kissing his head, and felt his soft ears and sweet chin resting on my arm. We were connected. Together. And then I sang him out, loudly, with the Pavamana Mantra, sending him to the sky. My voice was the last thing he heard as he flew from this world to the next on sparkle wings, flying across the bridge.
I felt called to stand up. As I looked down at his body, I saw a rush of light, felt buzzing all around me, and heard his voice. “Mom!” he said. “I’m free!” Petey was so full of love, so much more than his body could contain, and now his energy was everywhere, sparkling and electric, filling the space around us. “To the Great Beyond!” I said, suddenly dancing, stomping, and raising my hands in the air. “To the Great Beyond!” I shouted, pumping my arms like I was pushing his spirit to the clouds, chanting until it felt complete. His soul was leaving his body, and my body wanted to help, guiding it to the sky.
I stood back and looked at him. He looked peaceful. I tucked the letter under his paw; placed the other drawings around him; put the t-shirt I brought, the grey one I always slept in, under his head; and then, ever so gently, Andy and I sprinkled orange Gerber daisy petals all over his body, adorning him like a king. The petals glistened in the sun, bright against his tan body. He was beautiful, a benevolent creature and friend who had so much beauty in this life. I wished him even more in the next.
After they took him away, we stood there for a moment, in shock, but also in awe. I spent one last moment looking at the garden. Pausing. A dragonfly buzzed by, grazing my hand. Petey.
Hours later, as I roamed the neighborhood, dazed, a group of white butterflies flew in front of me and danced, in a pattern. “It’s me!” I heard him say. “I’m free!” Over the next week, Petey showed up in flying things. He was bumblebees, landing on my arm; dragonflies buzzing past; and my favorite, a white butterfly that swirled and danced in front of the back window as I wrote. Petey was gone, but still around, a spirit, heading in a new direction. He was nowhere, and he was everywhere – a joy that could not be contained. I’ve never felt anything like it.
Thank you for being in our lives, Petey Sellers! You were The Very Best Dog.
You were also a lover of friends and fun places; a smiler from birth; a goofy, silly guy who was always up for anything. A wearer of hats; a good sport, a fierce protector, loyal couch mate, and happiness booster extraordinaire; consummate sunbather, dog about town, friendmaker, quizzical-faced philosopher, and LOVER with the kindest heart, smile, and eyes you’ve ever seen. With him, everyone was special, a potential friend whose calves could be humped or whose ears were ready to receive a secret, just for them.
Petey, assistant editor, was also moody, often in deep contemplation. He had feelings – and wanted to tell me about them. He loved riding in cars, especially 1980’s BMW convertibles; he liked to ham it up, especially at a party; he loved to go to the office, any office; get a good view, and take a romp on the beach. Petey Sellers loved food from a bowl, fresh, green grass, high-fives, snuggles, hugs, and kisses, even though he’d never admit it. More than anything, he liked making people smile.
As promised, Petey Sellers will live on, right here. There are more stories to share, plenty of pep talks and awards, just ready and waiting. Little pockets of joy, from him to me to our community, this community that means so much. I know you miss him as much as I do.
So, pause. Take a moment. If you listen closely, you can almost hear him whisper his biggest secret, which really isn’t a secret, at all.
I love you, Petey Sellers says. I’m made of love, but so are you! And we can still give it to each other and the world.
Don’t forget. :)
Update
Thank you, thank you to everyone who reached out/sent food/flowers/cards/energy over these past few months. It’s been rough, but I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. The next post is about grief, but also magic. You know Petey showed up to help me out!
This next week is Petey Week! I’ll be sharing amazing photos and memories of him online, and would love for you to join in. Have a Petey story or photo? Please share it below in the comments. I’d love to fill them up, like a memorial, for Petey. On the socials, too. Let’s give our friend some love. And this month, I’m donating proceeds from subscriptions to the Pixie Project. Our community, helping the dog community.
xoxo,
Kari & Spirit Petey
This is so beautiful, Kari. Sending you love.