Tag: Chester

Goodbye to a good, good boy

~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments

He began as a promise.

When we left Michigan in 2004 to move to St. Louis so that my husband could begin his seminary studies, we left our golden retriever Mikey with my brother. She couldn’t live in the on-campus housing we were moving to; she couldn’t come with, so we said goodbye.

We comforted our sobbing children with a promise, “We’ll still get to see her.”

However, not long into our time in St. Louis, Mikey was hit by a car, and we lost her.

So, another promise: “When we finish seminary, we will adopt another golden.”

My husband finished seminary in 2008. We bought a house and moved in, traveled to Michigan for his ordination, took a family vacation, then returned to Missouri, and started looking for a dog. We contacted a golden retriever rescue in the greater St. Louis area and said we were looking for a puppy, preferably a female. They had a female, one of a litter of three, did we want to see them all?

Ok, sure.

When we arrived at the house where the puppies were being fostered, we found wall to wall goldens — in my memory there were about nine! The little blond girl we had come to see was rather rambunctious. She ran around the yard and bossed her brothers, one of whom was blond, the other red. We weren’t sure we were looking for her kind of energy. Instead, we were drawn to two others — an older golden named Bruno who plunked all 80+ pounds of himself on our son’s lap, licked his face and made him laugh and the little red brother who sat at our feet, looking up as though to say, “do you see what I’m dealing with here?’ We visited with the pack of goldens for about half an hour, and when we left, though we hated saying goodbye to Bruno, we knew the red boy would be ours.

A few days later, we picked up our little guy, who was just 4 months old at the time. They had been calling him Irish because he’d been born in March and had a red coat. He was crate trained and house trained, yet he allowed us to cradle him like a baby. We adored him from day one — he was instantly part of the family. It took us a few days, some poster board, and a ranked-choice voting system to settle on the same Chester Murphy.

Ches has been with us ever since. For close to 14 years, he cuddled with us on the couch, barked at the neighbors, ran with us, bore witness to our reality, and embodied unconditional love.

He saw our love for one another and for him, but he also witnessed a struggling family that not too many saw — one that had a lot to learn. In his early years, when he saw miscommunications, hurtful comments, silence, isolation, anger, yelling, sadness, tears, he stood right in the middle of it — watching, unafraid, moving in close.

He seemed to know who needed the most attention at any given moment. When one was assaulted and couldn’t tell the others, he climbed in her bed each night and kept her safe. When another got sick, he moved to her bed and kept watch. When one felt unlovable, he pressed his body in close. When one needed companionship, he willingly joined as they walked or ran for miles and miles. If one had been gone for a season, he met them upon return, tail wagging, ready to run and play. He was consistently loyal, loving, and accepting.

For almost 14 long years.

If you have followed this blog, you know that Chester has been a star from the start, mainly because, I have continued learning from him. When, we packed up and left St. Louis, Chester was teaching me how to feel about it. Since we’ve been back here in Michigan, he’s been by my side, showing me how to rest, reminding me of the importance of routine, and just recently, showing me his resilience when he was injured in a fall.

These last several weeks, he’s been showing us how to care for him. We’ve had to slow down, cancel some plans, adjust our routines, and even rearrange our space so that we could provide what he’s needed in his final days. And when it became obvious that these were indeed the most final of the final days, we gathered his people and watched as he showed us how to say goodbye, lying among us, letting us hold him, encouraging us to cry together, to sit together, to acknowledge, even out loud, all that he’s been through with us.

And now, the house is empty, although I swear, I just heard his toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. I keep looking for him, thinking it’s time to go outside, time to get a treat, time to cuddle up. When I realize, again, that he’s gone, my eyes fill, my throat aches, and I reach for the tissues.

I’m going to be sad for a while — really, really sad. We’ve lost a member of the family who loved us all so well, and we’ll never be the same. He taught us a lot, up to the very end.

Chester, you were a good, good boy.

God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.

Genesis 1:25

Cherishing Chester

~ Kristin ~ 3 Comments

It was 6 o’clock in the morning, my husband was out of town, and I was in the bathroom toweling off from a shower. I heard a disturbance in the hallway, an unfamiliar sound that I knew had something to do with our 13 year old golden retriever. I heard what I thought was a slipping, a scrambling for traction, a fall, and then silence.

I stepped from the bathroom into our hallway, onto the admittedly ultra-smooth engineered wood flooring, to see Chester standing, quivering, just inside the office door, claws safely secured in the plush carpeting. His eyes met mine as if to say, “Mom! Where were you? Didn’t you see what just happened?”

I looked him over, and urged him to come see me, but he wouldn’t step off the carpet. In fact, when I tried to guide him off, I saw that he was very unsteady on his feet. He could barely stand, let alone walk.

I got dressed and went to the basement where I found a couple hallway runners we had brought over from the other house. They weren’t exactly the decor I was looking for in this house, but they might just help Chester get his footing so that he could get to his water dish and outside one more time before I had to leave for work.

I made a path from the office to the kitchen where the aging rolled linoleum floor provides a little more traction. I guided/supported Chester to the kitchen and out the door where he stumbled and careened to the backyard.

This whole time my brain was in panicky problem-solving mode. Was his hip broken? Golden retrievers have all kinds of hip problems. If it was broken, wouldn’t he be crying? He was quiet, but unsteady. Maybe his hip was displaced. That might explain why he was careening — he really couldn’t walk a straight line.

What could I do? It was the second week of classes. We were (are!) still short-staffed and didn’t have a sub to cover me if I stayed home to take him to the vet. I decided I would have to put him in his crate where he sleeps whenever we leave the house, contact the caregiver who stops by during the day and let her know to take special care today, and phone the vet as soon as they opened.

Driving to work, I was stressed. Because of caring for Chester, I was running later than usual, and he was on my mind. What might the vet say? I imagined worst-case scenarios where I would have to call a family Face-time conference to make a tough decision at the end of a long work day. In all our minds, we know the day will come eventually. We’ve had thirteen amazing years with this nearly perfect pup. We know he can’t live forever, but guys, look at him!

The vet said I could bring him in at 5, and Chester’s caregiver said she would report back as soon as she was with him. I had done what I could. Now I had to compartmentalize my concern about Chester and attend to the three sections of seniors who would be coming to my class over the next several hours.

I taught the first two classes then checked my phone. Our caregiver had just arrived at the house. She acknowledged that Chester was wobbly and that she had to support him while he ate and drank. My heart sank. Surely this is serious; surely the vet will have nothing but bad news for me.

I thanked her for taking such good care of him, and regrouped before my final class stepped into my room.

When that block was over, I packed up my things and hurried to my car. I sped home, changed my clothes, put down some blankets in the back of our vehicle, and carried Chester to the car.

We got to the vet’s office, just a couple miles from our house, and I carried Chester in.

“Hi, this is Chester,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m so worried that I forgot to bring his collar and leash.”

“Ok,” the receptionist said, “as soon as we have a room ready, we’ll get you in.”

I sat down on a bench with Chester on my lap. The fact that he just sat there, letting me hold him, added to my panic. He is typically very active at the vet — he sniffs and paces and checks out all the other animals — but on this day, he rested quietly on my lap as I worriedly held his lanky body.

When another dog walked in, he couldn’t be bothered even to look over at it.

Gloom descended on me. Why now? Our daughter, who hasn’t see Chester is almost two years, had finally gotten permission to take a few vacation days and fly home. She actually purchased her flight on this very day. Certainly Chester would be ok, and she would be able to see him. Right?

After several minutes of waiting under the weight of my sweet doggo, we were moved into an examination room. I was texting with my husband, giving him the blow-by-blow report.

Our once very fit pup, who in the days when he ran several miles each day with us weighed in at 54 pounds, was now just 44. Gasp. In June he had been 46.

My emotions were right at the top of my throat when the vet, a woman I had never met before, came in. She knelt next to Chester, examining him thoroughly, listening to his heart, feeling the muscles in his legs, and gingerly massaging his hips.

I braced myself for her to say something like, “We are going to need to get an x-ray,” or “His hip is displaced and at this age, it is unlikely we will be able to relocate it,” or “Is there anyone you can call?”

But instead she said, “I think he has probably strained his muscles in this fall. I don’t believe anything is broken. I’d like to give him an additional medicine for pain, have him rest for a few days, and see how he does.”

“Really?” I practically cried. “I love that plan! That’s amazing!”

“Yes,” she said, “If he doesn’t improve in a few days, then we can do an x-ray.”

Relief washed over me. I hugged and kissed sweet Chester, gladly paid for his medicine, and drove him home.

Over the last several days, he has improved bit by bit. Yesterday I was putting on my walking shoes and he got that excited “can I come, too” look in his eyes. “You wanna come?” I asked. He looked me in the eye and did a little foot stomping routine.

“Ok, Buddy, but you’re not going far.”

I put on his collar and leash, and he happily walked down our street. At first he was sniffing and walking a straight line, even prancing a little bit, but before long, he looked up at me and started slowing, so I turned him around and headed back to the house. He’d made it about a quarter mile — not bad for a guy who couldn’t really walk down the hallway a few days earlier.

Last night, he labored to crawl up onto the futon to lie next to me as I watched TV. I put my hand on him and drank it in.

Tomorrow is not promised, so I treasure today.

For from His fullness, we have all received grace upon grace

John 1:16

Having compassion

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I’m sitting on my sofa with my feet resting on the ottoman in front of me.  Squeezed between the ottoman and the sofa, beneath my raised legs, lies Chester.  Poor traumatized Chester.

He woke up this morning expecting the usual — a trip outside with dad, food delivery from mom, a good morning nap, a walk, some barking at passersby, another meal, and some cuddling.  What he got was a trip to the animal hospital for an immunization and some grooming.

He ran willingly to the car, because since moving to Ann Arbor, the car means we are going to the park for a walk.  In St. Louis, we went on walks directly from our home, so the car meant one thing — we were going to the vet.  Period.  Chester hated getting into the car in St. Louis, but ever since that long drive to Ann Arbor, perched between mom and dad stealing French fries and drinks of water out of a McDonald’s cup, rides have been pretty sweet!

Until this morning.

He jumped into the back seat and settled in with his nose against the glass.  “Hooray!  Car ride! Park! Let’s go!” The ride was a little longer than a typical ride to the park, but he was calm.  “Longer ride; better park!” But when I pulled into the parking lot at the animal hospital and opened his door, he took a more investigative posture. He was pretty committed to sniffing every square inch of grass around the parking lot, but he still didn’t seem stressed. He had ascertained that other dogs had recently been present, yet he willingly walked into the building with me — more sniffing. Still calm. It wasn’t until we entered “Exam Room 2” and closed the door behind us that he recognized the high exam table, the built-in bench for mom, and the canister of – gasp – swabs! 

It was then that he looked at me with horror and ran directly to the door, begging, pleading with me to get him outta there!  “The Vet!!?!?!?!?  I thought we were going on a walk!?!?!?!?  How could you!?!?!?  I trusted you!?!?!?” No amount of reassuring would quiet him.  He was pretty ticked.  When the groomer came in to get him, our timid little Chester, actually growled at her.  She assured me that he would be fine and that she would call me when he was “done”. I trusted her.  She seemed like she knew what she was doing.  Chester refused to say “goodbye”.  He was going to show me.

Hours later, when I still hadn’t received a call, I phoned the animal hospital to check on Chester’s progress.  He was indeed “done”.  I arrived, paid for the services, and watched as the groomer appeared from behind a door with a dog that distinctly resembled my Chester.  I greeted him, but he showed no recognition of me.  I called to him; he turned the other way.  I walked him outside; he relieved himself and then non-emotionally walked to our car.  He crawled into the back seat and turned to look out the window, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

Ten minutes later, when I pulled into our parking spot outside our house, his tail began to wag.  I took him out of the car and he sniffed all his usual spots.  I opened the door to the house and he ran into familiarity.  He stood in the kitchen and drank out of his bowl, his very own bowl, for about five solid minutes.  He briefly greeted other family members, but mostly he has been content to lie beneath my legs.  He’s sacked out.  Exhausted.  Traumatized.

Me?  I’m fine, thanks. But then again, I didn’t have anybody take me to a place I didn’t know, to be cared for by people I’ve never met, and to be shampooed in stuff that smells nothing like anything I would choose.  I’ll let him pout for a little while longer. I would’ve thrown a fit too.  I imagine he’ll forgive me soon enough, I mean he is already sleeping underneath my legs.

Psalm 145:9

The Lord is good to all; He has compassion on all He has made.