I couldn’t lose him, too. I needed him to provide approval that things were going to be okay. Gizelle and I spent the night at his apartment nearly every night he was in town. I could feel myself morphing from a girl who used to not mind being alone to a girl who was terrified of being alone. Sometimes I picked on him for not being vocal enough when it came to expressing his feelings about me, about our relationship. Sometimes I tried to control him, change him, twist him to fit the image I wanted, which always led to the same arguments: “You pick on me for everything!” he’d say, rolling his eyes at me. “I’m doing the best I can for you. I really care about you. But you always picking on me doesn’t help.”
Then I’d cry and say I was sorry, that I didn’t want to be the type of girl who picked on him for everything. I didn’t want to be the needy, nagging girlfriend. That wasn’t me. I wanted to be independent and fine on my own. Rebecca always asked what I would do if Conner did tell me he loved me more than anything in the world and thought I was amazing. “Could you even say that back?” she asked, looking at me with doubt. “Do you love him?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. I only knew I was miserable without him, and that had to mean something, right? I kept going with the relationship. I even invited him on a family trip to the mountains to meet Dad, Erisy, Tripp, and Jenna.
Then one day I was sitting in my closet office in Tribeca when my boss walked in. Derek looked around at the organized boxes stacked on top of each other, the labeled rolling racks, the color-coordinated essential crew-neck tees, and the shoes with matching pairs. “Well. You know how to organize a closet now, don’t you?” He smiled, running his hand along the desk that was clear of samples. As I sat there at my computer that day, I realized I did know how to organize a closet. So maybe it was time to leave the closet.
I set off with my resume again and landed an interview with a travel PR firm in midtown. I didn’t even know travel public relations was a thing, and I left thinking, Well, didn’t get that job. A few weeks later they sent an email offering me a position as an account executive. “They’ve got to be kidding,” I told Rebecca, when I read the part that asked what name I wanted on my business cards. (Business cards!) I was so excited but also feeling like I must have tricked them or something. It was the perfect job for a girl who loved travel. I worked with a bespoke tour operator called Jacada Travel that offered luxurious, personalized journeys all over the world, and this five-star hotel in Machu Picchu called Sumaq. I studied dream adventures and faraway exotic places. Okay, the job didn’t always include a lot of going to those faraway exotic places, but there was always hope that they might send me on an adventure.
Perhaps the best part about my new gig was working in a small office with a boss who adored dogs, so occasionally Gizelle came to work with me. She took the freight elevator up to the fifth floor, where she took her job of sleeping next to my rolling chair very seriously.
I felt like I had control of my life. Boyfriend—check! Best friend—check! East Village apartment. Career. Dog. Check! Check! Check! I was even trying to qualify for the New York City Marathon, heading off for longer eight, nine, and ten mile runs by myself, and shorter, mini high-knees runs with Gizelle.
* * *
It was the type of day where it looked like it could rain but the forecast was clear. I unhooked Gizelle’s leash, and she picked up speed, galloping in front of me, turning her head to make sure I was following. I sped up until we were side by side, and then I slowed to my high-knees jog. I gazed over the water at Brooklyn. A bit of bright-blue sky peeked through the clouds. I took a deep breath of fresh air and looked down at my best friend, who was not at my side anymore.
“Gizelle?”
I looked over my shoulder and saw she was several steps behind me, walking as though she didn’t want her back paw to meet the ground, lowering it slowly then picking it up as though the concrete was too hot to touch.
I turned around and walked toward her, kneeling to the sidewalk under the Williamsburg Bridge.
“Can I see your paw? Your paw okay, girl?” I asked, thinking perhaps it was something from the streets of New York City stuck in Gizelle’s oversized feet.
I bent my head low to the ground, twisting her back left paw gently to examine the deep crevices in between the pads of her foot.
I poked at her limbs. “That hurt, Gizelle?” I asked softly, searching her eyes, giving her time to respond, always assuming that she would. She panted. “What about that?” I pressed again. Gizelle cocked her head and looked at me curiously. Then she nibbled my nose and shifted her body onto my knee to sit. This your way of telling me you’re okay? I rubbed her sides for a few minutes, gave her three let’s-go pats, and she lifted off my lap to begin the walk home. We got about ten steps, and then . . .
Limp.
The limp was subtle, but it was there.
I called Conner when we got back to my apartment and he rushed over. He watched Gizelle with chin in hand, as I called her back and forth across the skinny hallway. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just something stuck in her paws.” He kneeled to examine her legs, brushing me off like this was nothing. “Seriously. Odds are, what?—ten to one?—that it’s just something lodged in there we can’t see,” he assured, twisting her paw and narrowing his eyes to study it even closer. He looked like he was doing math in his head as he examined her.
“No, it’s not that. I know it’s not that.” There was a sass in my voice I hadn’t intended.
He sat for a moment, seemingly puzzled. “I don’t know, then. That’s really weird.” His lip went tight and he dropped his hands to his sides, stumped. It always worried me when Conner said he didn’t know. He was supposed to know everything. Knowing was his best and worst quality.
“I’m sure it’s going to be fine. But you could take her to the vet?”
At our first appointment, the vet studied Gizelle’s walk, much as Conner had, standing professionally, tapping her chin with her index finger as I marched Gizelle back and forth across the office hallway under white fluorescent lighting. “Okay, thissss way, Gizelle. Okay, now, thissss way. Good doggy.” Gizelle followed me anxiously, head high, paws tapping across the floor, which should have been great, except that we were at the vet for a reason.
“She seems okay,” the vet declared. “The limping you saw could have just been stiffness after the long winter. She doesn’t seem to be in pain. I would just keep an eye on it.”
For a few weeks, I kept an eye on it, and there was nothing to see. Gizelle seemed fine. But then the limp came back again one day in Tompkins Square Park. “Is Gizelle walking weird? Is she dragging her leg?” I asked Conner, flustered, as Gizelle walked in front of us, slightly scraping her back leg against the concrete. I took her to the vet again. The vet studied Gizelle’s walk and the response was: Stiffness? Arthritis? Depression? And: “Gizelle seems very in tune with your emotions, by the way she watches you. Have you been depressed, Lauren? She could be latching on to this.” And also, “Gizelle has a UTI.”
The vets loaded Gizelle up with vitamins and her jillion-dollar UTI meds. I ordered a heated dog bed that apparently helped with joint pain. The vet also advised me to hold a towel underneath Gizelle’s back legs on days when the limp seemed worst, like a forklift to help her up and down the stairs of my apartment.
I remained optimistic; the vets didn’t see anything too serious, and the limp was just a slight drag of her back leg and always on and off. But whenever I was certain it was gone for good, it came back. So, one day I decided to try a holistic pet shop for recommendations. Conner and I went together. We made our way around the shelves overflowing with organic catnip and biodegradable chew toys to the back of the shop, where a line of owners with their dogs and cats had formed in front of an old man. The man had a mop of white hair and big old-man ears. He sat hunched on a wooden stool in front of a shelf crowded with vitamins, dusty books, and jars filled with colorful powders.
Conner stood thumbing at his phone as we waited, and
Gizelle sat at my feet. The woman in front of me rambled anxiously to the man about her Yorkie who kept having panic attacks (coincidence?). The man on the stool listened intently, but showed no sign of sympathy, assuring the lady that giving her nervous pooch Bach’s Honeysuckle Flower remedy twice a day would help ease his anxiety. She scurried away thankful, and I was up next. He eyed me suspiciously.
“Hi . . . uh, this is Gizelle,” I continued “She’s . . . um . . .” But before I could complete that thought, I was interrupted.
“What kinda food ya feeding this dog?”
When I told him, I immediately wished I could take it back. He pinched his face in disgust, then looked at me, “So you’re telling me you feed this beautiful dog, this incredible creature you own . . .” He brought his face closer to mine, “Crap?” I opened my mouth but only a stutter came out. I could see Conner in a corner a few feet away, shaking his head and chuckling as he stared at his iPhone.
“You’re young. I can see that. I can hear. What are you, nineteen?” the man continued. “Let me tell you something. This gorgeous creature”—he rested his veiny, wrinkly hand on Gizelle’s head—“this dog deserves much more than crap.”
I swallowed. I completely agreed. I didn’t want to feed Gizelle the crap. But I didn’t think feeding her Purina was that bad. She certainly seemed to like it.
Next thing I knew, the man was shuffling in a drawer and pulling out a scroll of empty receipt paper. “Before I can help you, I need you to sign this.” He cleared a space to spread out the paper, then read the words aloud as he wrote them one by one.
“I
will
not
serve . . .”
Then he stalled for a moment and tapped his pen to his chin. “What’s the dog’s name again?”
“Gizelle.”
“Oh, right, right, right,” he continued. “I will not serve Gizelle any, ANY, other dog food except for Blue Buffalo brand.”
“Sign,” he demanded, tapping his pen twice on the paper. I wasn’t about to argue, or ask him about a clause that could include people food. I took the pen and agreed to these terms. The man took the receipt and signed it, too, then he shuffled around the store as Conner, Gizelle, and I followed behind him. I was trying to explain more about Gizelle’s on-and-off limp, but while I had this man’s attention, I found myself babbling on about Gizelle’s occasional smelliness, her UTIs, her constant shedding, her dry nose, how I was looking for something new and organic to clean her ears, and her teeth, etc. He didn’t say much, but next thing I knew I was spending triple digits at the holistic pet shop and I couldn’t wait to get home with Gizelle to start her new healthy, organic diet. “Thank you so much, sir,” I said, practically bowing, taking the bags from the counter.
“That guy is a loon,” Conner whispered, taking Gizelle’s leash.
* * *
The limp didn’t go away, so I swung by another vet in the East Village near my apartment. There were two ladies standing behind the desk, one with a thick Jersey accent. She wore lots of sparkly gold necklaces and had paw-print tattoos on her wrist. She kept referring to Gizelle as my “dawter,” and I liked that. I asked them to observe the way Gizelle walked. The next thing I knew the lady with the Jersey accent was on the floor behind Gizelle, massaging along her back thigh muscles while I sat in front of Gizelle with my legs crossed on the cold tile floor, petting her and rubbing her ears to make her as comfortable as possible. Then the vet pushed on the part of her back left leg that would be a knee on a person, but on a dog is called the hock. Her lips went tight. She peeked her head around Gizelle and looked at me.
“Heat.” She said, pushing the spot again with her thumb. “Yup. There’s heat there.” She nodded her head with confirmation.
She recommended I take Gizelle to a highly regarded pet neurologist to get it further checked out. What would the neurologist tell me? I asked. Isn’t that really serious? Gizelle is only six! How could this be serious?
As fast as I could, I made an appointment with the pet neurologist in midtown. I cabbed us uptown, missing work, only to find out that my mastiff would not fit in their Computerized Tomography machine. Then they reasoned it might be a torn ligament, and if I could let her rest for four weeks and limit walks to twice a day for ten minutes, it might heal on its own.
Might heal on its own? But if not, then what? The vet loaded her up with pain medications, and he said their office in New Jersey had a machine that would fit Gizelle. If I was adamant on testing now, he continued, I could rent a car and drive her there. I swallowed. I felt my lip quiver. “But . . . but . . . test for what?” I asked, as he began going over the different horrible things it could be. I started to sniffle, then a tear. Then I couldn’t stop the tears. The vet tried to console me by saying I could choose to wait a bit longer to see if the pain medicine and rest might heal the limp. I sat on the cold tile floor with Gizelle’s head in my lap and looked up at the vet. I was afraid, but I couldn’t ignore all of the enormous vet bills, so I decided to be optimistic and wait. “It might get better. She probably has not been resting enough,” he added. “Don’t worry.”
But I couldn’t not worry. One of my biggest issues was my stairs. Gizelle couldn’t rest where I lived. I lived in a walk-up apartment.
“It’s my stairs!” I cried. “She can’t recover if she’s always going up and down on the stairs!” The whole thing was too much. Gizelle kept her head in my lap, almost as if she were trying to console me as I sat there crying in my stupid black work blazer.
“I mean, I can drive her home to Nashville . . . but . . .” I just kept crying. The vet looked at me like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.
I left and called my aunt, because her best friend used to have mastiffs. “How old is Gizelle?” she asked bluntly. “Six! She’s only six!” I cried. “I’m sorry but the big dogs just don’t live long, honey. My friend lost hers at five.” I felt a pain in my chest, and it was then I realized I had always thought Gizelle would live as long as I did.
* * *
That night I found myself in bed with my journal. As I wrote, Gizelle propped her chin on the mattress. Her nose sniffed at the edge of the pages. I was feeling so lost and did not know what to do about Gizelle. Kimmy said she could watch her for a couple of days in her first-floor apartment while I figured out a plan, if I needed her to. Conner also offered to help. My dad said I could drive her home to Nashville and he’d take care of her. But I didn’t want to put a thousand miles between us. I thought about how my aunt had said: “They don’t live long, Fernie.” And then I thought about how the vet said it could be something more. I couldn’t get those words out of my head.
I looked down at Gizelle, whose nose was pressed to the edge of my journal. My silly journal that contained all my lists. My silly lists of all the things I wanted to do in my life. As I looked into Gizelle’s eyes shining up at me, I thought about Gizelle’s adventure, the things she would want to do in her life. Suddenly my list didn’t mean so much to me anymore. Suddenly something told me I needed to make the most of my time with Gizelle.
I started writing down things I wanted to do with Gizelle, and things Gizelle loved to do. Let’s see. What does Gizelle love to do? Well, she loved to go to Washington Square Park and people-watch, and she loved Times Square in the morning, when it was pretty and rose-colored and quiet. She loved cuddling and dance parties and road trips.
Wait. Road trips. I thought about my nineteenth summer when I’d pile into the car with Erisy, Yoda, and Fatty and drive away. Gizelle loved the car. She hadn’t been on a road trip in a while.
10
Road Trip
It was the perfect weekend for an adventure. It was summertime in the city, and Rebecca and I had already made plans to take off work. We were originally supposed to go to the Hamptons for one of her finance guys’ birthday parties, to a pretty white house with trendy pool toys in the shapes of swans and doughnuts and pizza. I texted her: “I don’t want to go
to Sag Harbor with a bunch of snooty girls. We can’t even bring Gizelle.”
She texted back. “You read my mind.”
I called Gizelle’s vet. “So, I know she is supposed to stay off stairs, but can she go on a road trip? If I’m really careful?”
“I don’t see why not,” said the vet.
I texted Rebecca. “Road trip?”
“Road trip.”
So Rebecca and I put a Prius rental on a credit card, and we left New York City with Gizelle sprawled across the folded-down backseat.
* * *
Our first stop was New York City traffic. Congested bumper to bumper in the rain, I took one look at the cup holder and knew I shouldn’t have left it up to Rebecca to get the car snacks. “The kale of the ocean!” she exclaimed, opening up the seaweed chips and placing one on her tongue. I dug through the shopping bag at my feet, hoping to find more than just a second bag of seaweed, but all I found were Milk-Bones. I opened up the box and gave Gizelle a few. She took the Milk-Bone delicately from my hand (like a lady) and with a single crunch it was gone. I was trying to relax, but I felt a tad anxious in the car. Is this road trip a terrible idea? Am I being so irresponsible? I should probably just be driving Gizelle to Nashville now. I have no plan. I need to get a plan. This is not good.
The rental’s windshield wipers squeaked back and forth and the rain pounded against the top of the car. We did sort of have a plan. Well, more of a concept. We knew we were driving north. We knew we were beginning in Stow, Massachusetts, where Rebecca’s parents lived, and ending in Kittery, Maine, where Rebecca’s sister and brother-in-law lived, but other than that, we were just . . . driving. And we were off to a slow start.
Gizelle's Bucket List Page 10