A Laboring Heart
A repeat post of Chapter 50 about my favorite boy. *Chapter 86*
Honestly, I just don’t feel like writing this week. Here’s an older post I really love about a little dog who continues to change my life on the regular. Last night was ANOTHER scare with him. He’s doing better now but, as so many of you know, with our older pets, you have to savor every second with them. Boy do they teach us everything about love and letting go. I’m sending you love. See you next week.
FROM JULY 29, 2024
Friday night found me sobbing. Scraps, my crazy terrier (who adopted my parents when we moved home and now lives with them), had been coughing for two weeks. What we thought was pneumonia turned out to be heart failure. A term I have learned over the past two days does not in fact mean “in the process of dying that very minute” as I assumed.
According to my dad, Scraps is now on a medication that makes it possible for him to live with this condition as long as the fluid on his lungs is kept at bay. As he put it, “Grandaddy was on this same medicine for years.” Can we think of a less alarming term than heart FAILURE? Can we call it maybe, a laboring heart?
As I held Scraps Friday, him still loopy from sedation, hot, gigantic tears cascaded down my face. Scraps has always been a creature in charge of his own destiny. My best friend, Evan and his then partner, Anthony, adopted him in 2013 a few months after they’d moved to Los Angeles. He was scrawny, had a raspy cough and a crusty nose and I couldn’t understand why they’d chosen him. They’d called him Max at the shelter but with his perfect flop ear, scruffy coat and gigantic, hilarious personality, Scraps soon revealed his true name. It didn’t take long for me to fall head over heels.
Scraps learned my car alarm beep and knew as soon as I’d parked that I was coming over to see him. Which I did a few times a week. He always slept in the guest bedroom with me and never loved the fact that I’d eventually leave to go back home. In 2019, in the midst of navigating their divorce, Evan and Anthony, asked if I would like to adopt Scraps. Of course I did. He and I lived together alone for four months, two of which were spent nursing him back to health after he was attacked by a giant dog, nearly losing his leg. When finally it was time for me to move home after eight years in LA, Scraps and I drove across the country together. We arrived in Atlanta three weeks before the pandemic and spent the next year and a half living with my parents.
He fell in love. I don’t blame him. When it came time for me to start a real life again, I couldn’t fathom removing him from the consistency of a household where he is never alone. Where he has routine. Where I don’t have to crate him for 8 hours while I’m at work. Where he has a giant backyard and gets too many treats. He manifested this life for himself. And so Scraps and I are back to our regular visits, he sleeps in the bed with me when I come over and grumbles when it is time for me to leave.
I could not handle the thought of a “last goodbye” yet. But then, when could I ever? This dog has an aura that stretches wide. Evan randomly sent me a picture of him Friday morning before the diagnosis. The lore of Scraps, in my mind, has him psychically controlling all of us. Using his powers to make sure he gets the care he needs and to live the life he wants to live. At the end of a day spent with him, it still astounds me that we haven’t been speaking actual words aloud to each other, we are in constant conversation.
In 2021, when I was about to move away from Georgia to take a new job in Virginia, I leaned down to kiss Scraps while he slept and startled him so badly he nipped at my nose and nearly took off the tip of it. Twelve stitches and a few years later, I credit Scraps for everything I currently consider myself so lucky to have. A life in Atlanta, an amazing boyfriend, great friends and a sweet home. I joke that I won’t have to tattoo Scraps’ name when he does decide to go, he permanently scarred me already.
Change is hard. It’s wonderful and exciting and tragic and sad. Before big transitions, I spend months in amorphous grief. Not sure the origin of deep sadness, I wallow until I realize I must be letting go of something. Usually metaphorically, like an old self, but also an old city, apartment, friend, pet?
Scraps is twelve. (13 at the time of this repost…) He could live for another six years or another six months. He is my first soul pet and he’s never even fully been mine. That’s what I love so much about him. He has clarified a unique definition of love and flexibility and acceptance. We share a bond special only to us. He forgives me every single time I leave and I forgive him for biting off my nose. He is the only creature I love unconditionally and without boundaries. I am the only human who knows exactly how to rub his ears without pissing him off. He has followed me through all of the giant transitions I’ve made over the past ten years.
It’s a razor’s edge, the line between joy and sadness. If I can get myself to the border, behold everything all at once, I think there is bliss. Some sort of relief in realizing that truth may actually be both absolute and fluid. You can love someone and never see them. You can lose someone and know they’re still here. This heavy feeling in my chest over the weekend both scary and grounding, sweet and sad. I know now that we can all live with a laboring heart, even crazy little scrappy dogs like this one.
"It’s a razor’s edge, the line between joy and sadness. If I can get myself to the border, behold everything all at once, I think there is bliss. Some sort of relief in realizing that truth may actually be both absolute and fluid." This is so beautiful!!!!