What's Right?
Bowie has always saved me.
It started in high school with the poster of him I had taped to my closet door, the one where he was wearing that yellow suit from the Serious Moonlight tour, crooning and looking like he owned the world. I’d put on one of his records, sit on a pillow behind the desk I made out of a wicker trunk, and scribble stories in my journal while he sang in the background. He made me and so many other teenagers in the Texas suburbs feel like being different was a good thing, and that because of that, we belonged.
It was January, 2021, and the pandemic was still raging, so the roads were empty and the sun rose as we traveled. I reached down to get a CD from the inside of the door and came back with Bowie’s The Singles Collection. The title was written in black Sharpie, a burned CD, back when we still did that. As “Changes” played, I relaxed. In the rearview mirror, I saw Petey relax, too. Bowie was coming along for the ride, like the soundtrack to this new part of our lives.
Depending on how Petey was feeling, I’d skip ahead to the perfect song. Most of the time it was “Heroes” or “Starman,” but sometimes “Suffragette City” and “Rebel Rebel” felt even better, pumping Petey up to receive treatment, sending energy to every cell from the original starman. We never listened to Bowie any other time because these songs were sacred, now. Our ritual.
You’re wonderful.
That’s what Bowie sang in one of my favorite songs, “Rock ’N Roll Suicide.” I usually skipped it when it came on, it was too emotional, but one day I was driving away after dropping Petey off, so I let the song play.
You’re not alone.
At that moment, we were almost a year into the pandemic and it was exactly what I needed to hear. We’d been solo-isolating the entire time, and even though I had plenty of family and friends across the miles and on Zoom, and a wonderful dog, physically, I was alone. Emotionally, while treating Petey for cancer, I was alone, too. It was truly a journey only the two of us could experience.
As Bowie sang – gimme your hands, ‘cause you're wonderful – I realized I needed to hear it. I probably always needed it, but hearing him sing to me as I drove away from Milwaukee, thirty degrees in the shining sun, made the tears flow. It was a release from the load I’d been carrying, not just from the pandemic, but from the stress of treatment days.
You’re not alone.
That day, Petey was getting doxorubicin, the heavy hitter that put him into remission last time. It was his second dose of the drug, which meant we were getting there. We were halfway through treatment.
I pulled the car over and cried.
I cried because we got to this point, all by ourselves, and Petey was about to make it through the acute phase, one so many other animals didn’t reach. He was going to make it to summer, just like he wanted. And even though it was the beginning of spring and the vaccines were coming, the pandemic wasn’t over, yet. I cried for that, too. But then I sat up, wiped my eyes, and exhaled. We had to hold on. Just a little bit longer.
Even after the pandemic, we’d have other things to hold – dogs with cancer, sick relatives, grief from all those we’d lost, financial struggles – but maybe we could let go of one thing, just for now. Like getting to the halfway point.
You’re wonderful.
At the time we didn’t know it, but we were probably almost halfway through the worst of the pandemic, too.
On January 8, 2022, we celebrated Bowie’s birthday, but we also celebrated something else – Petey’s six-month anniversary from his last chemo treatment. Our oncologist hoped for six to eight months without intervention, but every dog was different. We knew we were lucky. And even though the country was in the middle of another surge, locked down instead of seeing our people as we’d hoped, we spent the day listening to Bowie, writing, snuggling, and being together. Grateful that he was still here.
Petey laid by my side, my assistant editor, and rested as he recovered from his own list of recent ailments. Chemo treatments stopped cancer, but they didn’t stop time. Petey was a senior dog, post-chemo, and had been dealing with tummy troubles, teeth problems, and arthritis. We were always trying one thing and abandoning another; dealing with constant food switching due to supplier issues; and trying to figure out what hurts, where, and what to address first. During chemo, I’d gotten used to being on alert, looking for side effects that could be potentially lethal. We weren’t in the same place, anymore, but my habits were.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
Petey lifted his leg, like he needed a massage, and put his ears back. He was an expressive dog anyway, especially during the rainy, winter months when he moped along with the rest of us. But I still knew something was off.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again, but he just looked at me, a bit panicked. That’s when I realized I’d been asking him the wrong thing. I smiled and rubbed his ears.
“What’s right?” I said, and he cocked his head.
”What’s right?” I repeated, and he laid down and grinned, ears floppy.
”What’s right?” I said, one more time. And then I answered it. “We went to the park! You saw some dog friends. The sun was out! For a minute! You got snacks!”
Petey stretched out and yawned, totally relaxed and, for the moment, stress-free.
Instead of assuming something was wrong or not 100% — because, in life, things were rarely 100% – I focused on the good stuff. I focused on what was right.
He’s still here. I’m still here.
We made it through two challenging pandemic years, mostly alone, happily together. Petey survived chemo treatments and is still in remission. I’m still collaborating with wonderful people and writing stories with him by my side, the very best dog who makes sure I stay alive, aware, and awake.
We still listen to Bowie in the car when we go for cancer rechecks, but now it’s because his songs are our anthems, a reminder that we belong. Here, there, everywhere. Music has saved us so many times throughout the pandemic, little songs I’ve written and sung for us along the way, but also Bowie.
What’s right? We’re not alone. And really, we never have been.
Friends! It’s good to see you here. Petey Sellers had another check-up yesterday, February 10, 2022, and he’s still in remission, seven months later. Hooray! I’m so proud of this little fighter, he’s doing incrediby well. He’s also famous again, featured prominently on my updated website, kariluna.com. Check it out! Petey would love it.
Art: You’re a Winner!
I made this for Petey for his 6-month remission-a-versary, but it’s also for all of you. Like a Life Olympian, you made it to 2022! You’re here! You’re a winner. So print out this medal and wear it yourself or give it to your dog. Whether you’re going through chemo with your pup or celebrating any step along the way, congrats!
Music: Petey Sellers is the Very Best Dog
In June of 2020, I wrote a song called “Petey Sellers Is the Very Best Dog.” It’s silly, and we played it almost every day that first year of the pandemic. I’d change the lyrics depending on what happened that day, and it became a way for us to mark time. I can’t upload it here - stay tuned! – so, here are a few links to other music that saved us during this past few years.
Bowie - live performance, 1990
The Bellrays - Nooners and Cover Stories
DJ Action Slacks - Friday Night Dance Parties
The Brazilian Beat - Saturday Mornings
KCRW’s Morning Becomes Eclectic
As always, we hope you’re all healthy and well. Thanks for reading, sharing, and subscribing/donating if you can. We heart you! xoxo Kari & Petey Sellers
Love this and the Bowie infusion. So relatable and thanks for that. Also thanks for The BellRays shout out. Your positivity and happiness are contagious and I am ready to be infected 😁