Gizelle's Bucket List

by Lauren Fern Watt

  But I couldn’t slow down. There wasn’t time left.

  “No. I really have to get to Gizelle now. And I missed the stupid race. I’m just going to go rent a car or something.” I wiped my nose. “She needs me.”

  “I’m so sorry about Gizelle. I know you want to leave right away and get back to her. But Fernie, Gizelle didn’t just find out she has cancer. Know what I mean? This isn’t news to Gizelle. Gizelle is the same as she was yesterday in what she knows in life. She’s a dog, buddy. She’s had cancer this whole time. Maybe Gizelle has known for a while, don’t you think? We kind of thought this may happen. You told me you thought something could be really wrong.” I tried to take a deep breath on the phone, but I couldn’t. I was crying too hard again. Dad suggested I call a few more vets to gather second opinions on the best next steps. I had time to get a plan in order. I didn’t need to jump in a rental car right this second. He offered to keep Gizelle in Nashville if that’s what I wanted.

  I called Conner to let him know the bad news. He was out of town for work. In Disney World. “We got test results and Gizelle has cancer and she is dying!” I sobbed into the phone. He couldn’t hear me very well; he was literally walking into the Magic Kingdom, but I remember feeling extra sad that he was in The Most Magical Place on Earth and I was in the worst. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, Lauren. Are you going there? Oh, poor Gizelle.”

  “I’m trying. I’m figuring it out. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Call your boss. She’ll understand. She loves Gizelle. Get to Gizelle, you’ll feel better.” I desperately wished he were with me. How much I wanted him in that moment made me wonder if I really did love him. “Will you tell her I think she’s the best dog in the world?” I told him I would.

  I hung up the phone and sat down heavily on the dark wooden floor. There were still clouds of dog hair under the sofa. I knew that my dad had a point about slowing down and remembering my work obligations. I knew Conner was right about calling my boss and getting to Gizelle.

  I called my boss’s cell that day and told her the bad news. She told me to do whatever I needed to do. (Thank God she loved our office dog.) I went to work Monday morning to get some of my stuff in order. But I sat at my desk, dazed, tears dripping to the keyboard as my coworkers stared at me. So I collected my things, sent my boss an email that it was too hard to be here, and jumped on the next bus to Portsmouth. I needed to get to Gizelle. I needed to get to Gizelle so I could bring her to the ocean. She had yet to see the waves crashing at the beach.

  * * *

  Besides the driver, I was the only person on the afternoon bus, which was a good thing because I cried most of the way while The Goonies droned on the bus TV. You have the five-hour bus ride to cry, I instructed myself, immediately deciding that five hours was too long and I needed to cut the tears. I closed my eyes and pressed my head against the glass. When I opened my eyes and looked out the window at the trees rushing by, at the coastal towns along the water, I couldn’t help but be reminded of all my times running with Gizelle. Along the East River in the winter, through Central Park in the fall, by the library at night on campus back when I was still a student and life had seemed hard, but I’d had no idea.

  Now I was faced with the truth. This was it. The end of our race. She would never run again. I shook my head in disbelief and stared out the window. I needed to find a way to keep putting one foot in front of the other. So, I did the only thing my twenty-five-year-old self could think to do. I dug a pen from the bottom of my purse, shuffled around in my backpack for my journal, flipped to the page that had at some point earned the title “Gizelle’s Bucket List,” and I wrote.

  * * *

  I stood at the bus station in Portsmouth with my backpack and green duffel, waiting for my bright-red economy-sized Nissan rental car to arrive. “This work for you?” the cute guy in the black suit asked. I eyed the backseat.

  “It’s smaller, but you probably don’t need tons of space,” he warned.

  I didn’t mention the mastiff, but he was right; Gizelle and I had never needed tons of space.

  “This works,” I said, taking the keys and gunning the car out of the parking lot. It was a ten-minute drive to Kittery. I parked on the road in front of Caitlin and John’s house. They’d told me they’d be at work.

  “Gizelle!” I called out before even reaching their front door. Pleasant Street was so quiet I could hear her tail thumping from outside. I grabbed the key from underneath the mat where I knew they kept it and swung open the door. She was in the living room on her dog bed, which was a pile of egg-crate mattresses that Caitlin and John had made for her, covered with her favorite red fleece blanket. She lifted herself slowly. I ran to her before she could get up, kneeled down, and wrapped my arms around her neck. “I’m here, Gizelle! I’m here!” Then more quietly, “I’m here, girl. It’s okay. We’re okay.” She put her front paws on top of my chest, pushing me to the floor, licking my face with her long, sandy tongue until I finally sat up and studied her. I thought for sure she would look different—sickly, about to die. But she didn’t. She thwacked her tail against the hardwood floor and nibbled my nose and looked . . . the same. Tears welled up in my eyes even though I’d promised myself they wouldn’t. I hugged Gizelle again. She rested her head on top of mine and I smooshed my face into her fur. I didn’t want to let go. Someday I would have to let go, but not today. Today we still had things to do.

  PART II

  The Bucket List

  12

  The Dock

  There were many items to cross off Gizelle’s Bucket List, but the first item I wanted to complete that day was the beach. I’d always wanted to go to the ocean with Gizelle. I figured she might enjoy standing in front of a big body of water that would make her feel small. Plus, there are no scary buses at the ocean. Only sun, sand, turquoise water, and waves. Waves.

  We found a dog-friendly beach at a place called Fort Foster Park, and I organized a beach bag for Gizelle with all the care of a neurotic helicopter mom. Water bowl, extra gallon of water, beach towel. Check! Glucosamine, gabapentin, Rimadyl, tramadol. Check! I brought her chicken from the Maine Meat shop, her dog bone and red rope toy. Then I packed my gear: camera, journal, sandwich.

  I parked as close as I could to the sand, then lugged everything across the parking lot at turtle speed. I didn’t want to move too fast and make Gizelle feel obligated to keep up. Her limp was only slight that day, but the vet had told me it was important to be extra careful of both her back legs. The left hind leg would only grow weaker, and if she injured the right while trying to stay off the left, that would be it.

  We walked a dozen or so yards until I came to a quiet stretch of sand in between some rocks where I threw everything down. Fort Foster Park was beautiful. There was an old, run-down lighthouse off in the distance in front of us, black boulders dispersed across the sand, not many people, and a beautiful blue line where the ocean met the sky. “Look. What is it, Gizelle? It’s the ocean! See the ocean?” I pointed.

  I walked down to the water as Gizelle sat at our little camp a few yards away and watched me. “C’mere, Gizelle! C’mon, girl!” I coaxed, wiggling my fingers in the water. The water was calm and not too cold. Gizelle looked at me for a moment, pausing to sniff the air before approaching the surf. “C’mon, girl! You can do it!” She lowered her head slowly to examine the water, tail still tucked, probably wondering what this enormous tub was doing here and why it seemed to be moving. She crept closer, but when the first teensy-tiny wave spilled gently to the shore, just barely tickling Gizelle’s front paws, her eyes widened, she turned around and retreated. I shook my head. Same old Gizelle. Once that wave was gone, she tried again. Then pulled back. Approached. Pulled back. Approached. On Gizelle’s fourth try, her eyes were on me. “Come on, Gizelle!” I clapped my hands. “C’mon!” She walked farther and farther, right into the ocean. I held out my hands, clapping. “Good girl! Good, Gizelle! You did it!” I cheered as she stood there, pantin
g and smiling, before trying to drink the ocean.

  We stood for a few minutes, admiring how the sun glistened on the water. I wondered if Gizelle felt small. I felt small, but also free from troubles. For a moment, standing in front of the ocean, I didn’t need to fix anything. And despite the horrible circumstances that had brought us here, I was still at the beach with my best friend on a weekday, digging my toes into the wet ocean sand.

  Gizelle shook dry as we walked back to our little camp. I ate my sandwich and gave Gizelle her medicine wrapped in a slice of deli meat and treats from the Maine Meat shop. I wrote Gizelle’s name with some seashells in the sand. We took a nap. After an hour or so passed, we carefully walked back to the car and I lifted Gizelle into the backseat, wrapping my arms around her waist, casually, as though we did this all the time, so she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Three, two, one, heave! I thought as I hoisted her into the car. I climbed into the front. I was plastered with dog fur; there was salt on my skin and sand in my hair. I picked up my journal and looked at the list. “Go to the beach.” I crossed it out, feeling happy and accomplished that I had just done something simple with my best friend that I’d always wanted to do, and it seemed like she’d enjoyed it.

  Our adventure continued. We spent the next week discovering Maine. Gizelle and I found the best lobster rolls (Clam Shack in Kennebunk), the best doughnuts in the world (Congdon’s Doughnuts in Wells), twisted through roads with views of the sea, explored antique stores trying not to knock things over (Gizelle) and not to get taken in by “collector’s items” (me). We met goats and chickens, got lost on purpose, and sat in a garden watching butterflies. I kept busy by coming up with bucket list things for Gizelle to do, trying to get creative with things that didn’t require walking, which did help take my mind off the pain of losing her.

  As we drove back to Kittery, I found myself glancing at Gizelle through the rearview mirror of the rental car. She sprawled across the backseat with her nose peacefully propped against the window ledge as she watched the greenery pass by. I couldn’t stop worrying about how much longer she had. A week? A month? What if she was feeling pain and unable to tell me, and how would I know when to finally let her go? She was on pain medicine and receiving monthly doses of ketamine, but, still, was she okay? My mind felt filled with uncertainties, but it all came down to one certainty that was the hardest. I was going to lose Gizelle.

  Clouds turned gray up ahead, and as a storm blew in I realized I couldn’t make my pesky worries stop. My worries had even expanded into things that hadn’t even happened yet, things that might never even happen. What if Gizelle breaks her good leg? What if Mom drives drunk and hurts someone? What if my boss actually hates me because I’m missing work, even though she said it was fine? What if Gizelle dies tomorrow? I’m making Gizelle a bucket list so she can “live in the present”? But doesn’t Gizelle already live in the present? This is stupid. I am stupid.

  I kept driving, and as the rain finally subsided, a sign on an old house caught my eye: FRISBEE’S 1828 MARKET, AMERICA’S OLDEST FAMILY STORE. I turned the car around. One item on Gizelle’s Bucket List was “Eat ice cream.” Maybe now was a good time to stop? I went in and grabbed a pint, stood underneath the Frisbee’s sign, trying to decide where Gizelle should enjoy the Ben & Jerry’s vanilla ice cream, when I noticed a wooden boat dock behind the store. A bit of sun hit the wood and turned it a warm, inviting gold color. I got back in the car and drove us down the tiny slope of a hill in the parking lot so Gizelle didn’t have to walk. Then I helped her slowly out of the car. The ocean breeze kissed my face. It was salty and warm.

  Fishing boats tapped against the dock and seagulls flew out over the water toward the horizon as I stepped onto the wooden planks. Gizelle’s toenails clicked behind me, her back left leg slightly dragging, which put a kink in her usual trotting rhythm, but her tail still swung behind her. Even though it was nothing more than a little boat dock behind America’s oldest family store, this spot seemed so magical that I almost felt the need to whisper.

  I sat on the wood and Gizelle plopped next to me in a sphinx position, chin up, watching me with anticipation as I peeled the plastic off the carton and removed the lid. I took a bite with the white plastic spoon, then looked at Gizelle, who was watching the spoonful of ice cream with the same look of desperation and determination she always had, as though if she looked at it long enough, it would miraculously become hers. I waved the pint in front of her, and she followed it back and forth with her head, licking her chops. “You want it, girl? You waaaaannnt it?”

  Her tail whipped the wood once with excitement.

  As I held the ice cream in my hand and looked at Gizelle, I thought about my worries, how heavy they were. Then I thought about how light and easy this moment felt. What purpose did my worries serve me here, now? The only thing my worries could possibly do was prevent me from enjoying this dock with Gizelle. So, I politely asked my worries to please stay on land for a moment while I cherished this precious moment on the dock with my dog. And for once, my worries listened. It wasn’t like my mind clicked into some euphoric life-changing yogi calmness, but for twenty minutes or so, I wasn’t lost in my mind’s rabbit hole. I was in the present.

  I placed the pint in between Gizelle’s paws. She dove in with her long, slow tongue, angling her muzzle toward the ice cream as the carton rolled across the wood. I laughed, and then I cried a few happy tears as the lobster boats went by and she slurped the ice cream.

  I let her have at it with Ben & Jerry for a moment, took a few photos, then held the pint steady to her snout. Now I knew that Gizelle and I had a new secret spot on the seacoast of Maine behind America’s oldest family store. I slid my spoon inside the carton of ice cream and smeared some ice cream on her nose. She slurped it off. “Good Gizelle.” I laughed.

  13

  A Dog’s List

  Maybe a bucket list for a dog was a silly thing to do. Maybe Gizelle didn’t have dying wishes. Maybe Gizelle wasn’t even supposed to eat Ben & Jerry’s. Some angry man once told me that making a bucket list for a dog was selfish. “That list is all about you!” he exclaimed. “A dog bucket list is only for the human!”

  Maybe he had a point. I instantly thought of the Trader Joe’s dog biscuits I always bought Gizelle. The treats were shaped like cars and shoes, fire hydrants and squirrels (“things dogs love”), and every day I looked at Gizelle and asked, “Now, which one do you want today? The sofa? Or the squirrel?” Then one day it seemed silly. Gizelle didn’t have a clue what these shapes were. This dog biscuit shaped like a squirrel was shaped like a squirrel for me. Not Gizelle. Maybe it’s always about the human (and the dog is the more-than-willing participant). I knew Gizelle couldn’t write a bucket list. Gizelle was a dog. Dogs cannot write.

  But sometimes I liked to imagine Gizelle could write. I liked to believe that if I said, “Hey, Gizelle! Write your own bucket list, okay, girl? Write down everything you want to do in your life,” Gizelle might have some difficulty coming up with her own list. She had never been much of an alpha. She followed me everywhere and always seemed to want to be doing whatever I was doing. Gizelle would probably be the girl peeking over at my page to copy everything on my list.

  So if Gizelle was copying my list, my list said:

  Bring Gizelle on a boat

  I always wanted Gizelle to ride in a boat. Maybe it was because we loved watching the canoes in Central Park, or because my mom had always told me mermaids were real (and I had this obsession with The Little Mermaid—when much, much younger, of course). At first I was dreaming big. A dog-friendly cruise through the tropics? Could we finagle our way onto one of those shiny white yachts in Battery Park City? But the more I thought about it, this was Gizelle’s Bucket List. A cruise was way too much work for a sick dog, and those loud ship horns were more terrifying than any bus honk in New York City. Plus, Gizelle couldn’t walk much on land. I wasn’t about to test her sea legs.

  Then one weekend Conner and I wound up in
Moultonborough, New Hampshire, with Gizelle. We rented a rickety old house with roosters in the front yard and a pond in the back. We were standing barefoot in the grass, the summer sun beating down, planning to lie out near the water when I spotted it. There, in the shade of overhanging trees next to the pond, was one large plastic canoe.

  In an instant I envisioned the three of us floating through the pond together on the canoe as Conner paddled. Gizelle loved the car; how could she not enjoy the light breeze from a canoe ride? I hated that she couldn’t run anymore. Gliding in a canoe would be a way for her to keep exploring new sights and smells without having to walk.

  “Conner. We have to get Gizelle in that canoe.”

  Conner looked at me, then eyed Gizelle, who was standing at my side, with her back left leg floating in the air, careful not to put weight on it.

  “She was afraid of the grill yesterday. You really think she’ll want to canoe?”

  “If we get in the canoe, she’ll want to get in the canoe.”

  We walked slowly down the yard to find that the vessel was wedged in the mud, covered in spider webs, inhabited by a number of six- and eight-legged creatures, and filled with stagnant, swampy brown water.

  “Are you sure we want to get in that canoe?” Conner mumbled. I nodded, explaining it was for that whole Gizelle bucket list thing I was doing, half-joking, but not joking at all.

  “Oh right, right, right. The bucket list,” he said, turning to address Gizelle. “Well, if it’s for your bucket list, Gizelle . . .” He smiled.

  Conner set his backpack on the dock and tottered into the water. He was shirtless and his hair was messy, so different from his city uniform. He even had a beard growing on his face. I liked this look—tan and rugged, standing in the mud on the lakeshore. I watched as he wriggled the boat out of the sticky mud to dump out the mucky water. Gizelle studied him, ducking slightly when he lifted the canoe. Then he took a dirty old orange lifejacket and swatted away some of the spider webs and insects. Conner pulled the canoe deeper into the water, then held it steady with both hands.