Chelsea Girl by John Cranford True Story Contest contest entry |
It’s August 1st and here I am again thinking of this little brown dachshund named Chelsea. I’m a "big dog" person…always have been. My first dog (Jerry) was a mixture of Irish Setter and something else. He would hide under the table at meals, and I would eat a spoonful and then strategically slip a spoonful to Jerry. My favorite breed is the Golden Retriever. Gracie, who lived down the street, would break out of her backyard and make her daily trek to my front door and wait for me. She knew I would greet her with my pockets stuffed with little dog bone treats. Gracie may have been a tad overweight, but I’m convinced I had nothing to do with that. Nero, my former Great Dane, liked to ride in my VW beetle. He would sit in the back seat with his front legs over the back of the front seat. That way, we could talk face to face. When I looked in the rear-view mirror, all I could see was “brown.” His favorite prank was to run and sneak up behind me, hit me behind my knees and drop me like sack of dirt. So why every year at this time do I think of a little squirt of a dog named Chelsea? Chelsea came into our lives as a puppy. My middle son and his future wife showed up one day with this little dachshund. Since they had full time jobs, they asked if we could temporarily keep her while she was a puppy. I reluctantly agreed. We “temporarily” kept Chelsea for 14 years. I tried my best not to get attached to her, but she would have none of it. She followed me around and would jump up into my recliner when I was watching TV and wedge herself between me and the armrest. When I traveled, my wife would say, “Dad’s coming home.” Chelsea would assume her post at the window and watch for an hour or so for my car to pull into the driveway. She would then streak out the door, run at full speed around the yard, back in the house, up the stairs, up and down the hall; all the time hollering as if someone were beating her. That was her way of welcoming me home and, over time, weaseling her way into my heart. Chelsea looked forward to Friday night, which was nationally recognized pizza night at our house. No, I didn’t feed her pizza. But she loved pepperoni. I would take the pepperoni off the pizza, bite half and give her the other half. She also loved cheese. I also know that’s not good for dogs. But I don’t feel that guilty. Chelsea lived over 14 years. I figured pepperoni and cheese probably shortened her life span by about ten minutes. That would only be a little over an hour and a half in dog minutes. During her last year, we noticed that she was losing the use of her left hind leg. We took her to the vet, and he sent us to a specialist. He took x-rays and found a cancerous tumor. At her age (14) we decided not to try and extend her life. She was in enough pain, and we didn’t want to prolong her suffering. On the day we were to have her put to sleep, I sat with her on the couch all morning, just quietly being with her. At 2:00pm the vet injected her with the shot. She was looking directly at me when she breathed her last. It was the afternoon of August 1st. A few days later, we received a card. I know it was from Chelsea because she signed it with her paws. It read, “Grieve not, nor speak of me with tears, but laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you…I loved you so…t’was heaven here with you.” So on this August 1st, with blurry eyes, I’m thinking of that little wiener dog I tried so hard not to love.
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John Cranford
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