Shellbee's Story

by Jennifer Flynn-Campbell

  So it’s going to be a journey for me. We’re going to Hopewell Junction, New York, to talk to Dr. Paul McNamara about surgery. We’re also going to check out possible rehabs to quicken my recovery.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee (a.k.a., B.C.P.)

  Letter 29

  Surgery and Recovery,

  Dr. McNamara and

  My Elbows, Plus More

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. I have two bad elbows that need to be fixed. Mommy and Pappy did a lot of research to find the perfect surgeon for me, and then we drove for hours to meet Dr. Paul McNamara in Hopewell Junction, New York. We checked into a local motel—staying in motels is one of my favorite things to do. I promptly jumped on our bed and chomped on some crushed ice. Mommy and Pappy seem anxious. I can smell their emotion, so I wag my tail a lot to distract them.

  Meeting Dr. McNamara is so much fun—he crawls into the room on his hands and knees! I am cracking up, squealing at the sight of this big human on all fours! He looks different than any other human I’ve seen because he doesn’t have hair on his head. He must be one of those hairless dogs, especially since he wiggles like me. When he stands up, he is tall and has a huge smile. Something shifts in the mood, and serious talk begins. I climb up onto Mommy’s lap, sitting upright and paying close attention. Most seventy-pound dogs don’t sit like this. Despite Dr. McNamara’s serious talk, he starts laughing. “She looks so natural sitting in your lap like that!” He and I are getting to know one another. I am a princess, and he is a king. Mommy and Pappy really seem to like him a lot, too. I am falling in love—he has a dog heart and a brilliant mind, and is strong enough to carry me.

  Dr. McNamara says surgery is necessary, so for the first time ever, I will be sleeping away from Mommy and Pappy. Mommy is a pesky dog lady, so she politely requests a tour of Dr. McNamara’s hospital den. We trot around, and Mommy points to a crated room in view of the nurse’s station. Dr. McNamara says he’ll reserve this room for me. I can’t tell you much of what else is going on because my belly is rumbling—I couldn’t have any food again. Howl! I say goodbye to Mommy and Pappy, and I go to sleep for my surgery. When I wake up, I’m still in this strange place; I have my blankie and baby, but no Mommy and Pappy. My head is woozy and spinning, so I howl, wince, and whine. The nurses are very nice to me. They feel my emotional pain and confusion. The nurses are also nice to Mommy, who’s been calling constantly to check on me.

  After two sleeps and countless calls from Mommy to the nurses, I’m still nutty and don’t know why. My eyes are goopy and everything looks blurry, which makes me feel uneasy. Finally, Dr. McNamara comes crawling into the room, checks me all over, and says I can go home. I wait in my room by myself for a while—I’m getting used to my hospital stay—but then I see Mommy and Pappy, and I go crazy, yelping and whining. I’m letting them know I had a strange experience and I’m ready to go home! (Okay, truth is, I’m also telling them to never get a dumb idea like this again!) When Dr. McNamara comes back into the room, I stop whining—my spirits brighten, and I wiggle with glee. (As you can see, I have learned to play to my audience.) Dr. McNamara and I have gotten so close that he now refers to himself as my “Uncle Paul.”

  Dr. McNamara says my medical journey isn’t over yet—the fun is just beginning for Shellbee the Princess. Dr. McNamara has some stern commands for my parents: “You must keep her calm, she can only go out to relieve herself, you must carry her up and down stairs, and she needs to lose weight! Recovery time is six to eight weeks.” I am a lively puppy—full of energy—and I am a chowhound. What’s going to become of me with all these rules? It is also suggested that I be crated and wear a dopey, big plastic collar—the collar of shame! No way, this can’t happen to me! Luckily, Mommy and Pappy quickly explain that they already have a recovery plan in place. Before we went to see Dr. McNamara, we turned our living room into a big pen, where we could all live together during my recovery. Pappy said it reminded him of living at college (whatever that is).

  Mommy and Pappy moved the couch to create a fourth wall, they put a mattress on the floor for us all to sleep on, and they brought in their noisy box that has moving pictures. Mommy and Pappy even changed their work hours so they could switch off daytime guard shifts. No crazy, frisbee-shaped, plastic collar of shame for me! Instead, Pappy ties a T-shirt around my neck. I love this shirt because it smells like Pappy!

  I say goodbye to Dr. McNamara, and we drive all the way back home. I must admit, so far I’m enjoying this lazy way of living: the pain in my elbows has already disappeared, and my parents are stuck in a huge, man-made crate with me! Visitors come by to see me, and brother Jimmy often hops into my pen for loving. I know I’d better get well soon so brother Jimmy can have me help him dress less silly. Then again, this outfit was brother Jimmy’s Halloween costume . . .

  I’m fully recovered from my surgery now. You’d think that, with everything I’ve been through, my parents would leave me alone for a while. Nope. They took me to get spayed. Let me tell you, getting spayed really hurts a lot! We went up to see another doctor in Hopewell Junction for this massacre—but at least I got to go home the same day. I howled, cried, yelped, and threw myself around the backseat the whole way home. Mommy was in the back with me, ready to hug me and sing songs when I let her. Imagine the stamina it took for Mommy to sing the same song over and over for four hours. It’s a reggae tune by Bob Marley that she altered just for me:

  No, Shellbee, no cry,

  No, Shellbee, no cry,

  No, Shellbee, no cry,

  No, Shellbee, no cry.

  In this bright future, you can forget your past

  So dry your tears, I say.

  Everything’s gonna be all right!

  Everything’s gonna be all right!

  Everything’s gonna be all right!

  Everything’s gonna be all right!

  No, Shellbee, no cry,

  No, no, Shellbee, no cry.

  Not only did Mommy have to sing this song for four hours, but Poor Pappy had to listen to it—his knuckles were white from gripping the wheel. When we finally got back home, Mommy and Pappy had transformed the living room again into another giant pen, but I wasn’t having anything to do with them. Finally, my savior arrived—brother Jimmy. He said, “She’s upset you took her womanhood!” He lay on the floor with me, and I felt calmer; I only gave one last yelp before falling asleep. Brother Jimmy stayed with me the whole night as I was very suspicious of my parents. The next morning brought a brighter day, my pain fading into a memory. As a family, we all chatted about my back-to-back medical events, and we nicknamed my surgeons “the puppy cutters.”

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  Letter 30

  Bodily Encounters

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. As you know, humans have to deal with the limitations of their physical bodies just like I do. Mommy and Pappy have had their own issues, though I’ve brought most of the medical drama to our home. Brother Jimmy and sister-in-law Jen seem to always be fine, although brother Jimmy sniffles and snorts from his snout sometimes, and sister-in-law Jen wraps her neck in ice . . . she likes to do that even though I think it would be pretty chilly. Trixie, their little Boston Terrier rescue puppy, had bodily issues when she first arrived—creepy, crawly skin things inside and out. The words used to describe dog conditions can sometimes sound unearthly: mange, roundworms, giardia, and histiocytoma.

  When I first saw Trixie, she was mighty skinny, she had some bald patches and polka dots, and her eyes bugged out. All of that stuff was fixed by her New York City vet, someone I hear Trixie didn’t like much. Trixie would shake and shiver when the lady vet came to brother Jimmy and Jen’s house. I always love my trips to the vet. I happily hop out of the car, pull Mommy and Pappy inside the building, and step right up for check-in. There was one time, though, when I became very suspicious once I was in the examination room. I was at the vet because I couldn’t wag my tail; it was dead, which I later f
ound out had something to do with my pooper. Now, we all poop, but I don’t think any of us wants our pooper invaded. My vet at the time was Dr. John Lu. I had always liked him because he squatted down to my level instead of putting me up on a table. “I come to her,” he said. “You must always keep the stress off dogs.” I liked his attitude—full-service veterinary care—but poor me and Dr. Lu had a shift in our relationship when I came in with my dead tail. It’s up to you to imagine what he did and where he put his fingers to squeeze out my horrible, smelly goop. I’ve never had another dead tail, but since that day, I’ve hid under the chair in the examination room and faced the wall. Mommy says, “Shellbee, this out-of-sight, out-of-mind thing isn’t going to work; your rumpalumpalus is sticking out, and we all know you’re here.” Even though Dr. Lu never put his fingers you-know-where again, I was always suspicious he might, so I thought, Better to be safe than sorry.

  From my dead-tail experience, another song was born in Shellbee’s discography, this one fashioned after the lullaby “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”:

  Mediceen on hiney, mediceen on hiney,

  Mediceen oh mediceen, oh mediceen on hiney

  I have another favorite vet: Dr. Judith Seltzer. She was my dermatologist for my ears, and I used to visit her once a month. Every time I saw her, I would set down some ground rules. First, I’d howl in the most dramatic way possible; then I would hide under a chair. When it was time for the goop retrieval from my ear, I would leap onto Mommy’s lap, dig in my claws, and hide my head behind her neck—out of sight, out of mind! The doctor, vet tech, and Pappy would have to maneuver around Mommy to get my goop sample; meanwhile I’d be pinning Mommy to her chair and leaving black-and-blue claw marks on her legs. Mommy and Pappy called me “Sarah Bernhardt.” (Until I came around, Sarah Bernhardt was “the most famous actress the world has ever known.” Both of us have a divine dramatic flair.) But I wasn’t being dramatic just to be dramatic. I knew there was no escaping that examination, so I figured I might as well have everyone join my emotional journey.

  Dr. Seltzer was always gentle, and I knew she wanted the best for me, but I was a confusing case. The goopy junk she took out of my ears was sent to a lab and analyzed by scientists. Each month these scientists got a different result, which puzzled Dr. Seltzer immensely. The mystery was eventually solved, and all of my suffering paid off because I was no longer referred to as “Shellbee Shake-a-da-Head,” affectionately so named by brother Jimmy. Trixie must have had a similar medical experience that frightened her. She never told me what it was. I just know that all her creepy, crawly things went away, but her eyes still bug out. Bug eyes must be the permanent side effect of the fear she once encountered.

  But enough about my medical problems. On to my family. Let’s first talk about my loving Pappy. His problems all started when Pappy, Mommy, and I were in our camper one spring. Mommy has a strong tendency to always watch us with her hawk eyes. While we were camping, she didn’t like what she saw behind Pappy’s knee. She felt it. I licked it. Pappy, who was unable to see behind his knee, said helplessly, “What, what?” After a description of his veins in the area, a doctor’s visit was agreed upon. Well, it turned out to be very serious stuff. Pappy had five aneurysms, all below his belly and knees. The good news was multiple surgeries could fix the aneurysms. The bad news was, for the first time in my life, Mommy and Pappy would be away from home for two sleeps! I had stayed away from them for my elbow surgery, but never them from me. Mommy and Pappy told me not to worry; brother Jimmy would take care of me.

  Before Pappy went for his surgery, Mommy put him on the “6 P’s Plan”: Prior Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Pappy started working out with Cathy, Mommy’s personal trainer, and she made him go to her gynecologist, Dr. Moshe Dekel. I know gynecologists are for ladies, but Dr. Dekel is also a holistic medicine man, trained in shaman practices. I know Dr. Dekel’s shamanism allows him to become a messenger between the human world and the spirit world. As a canine, I can see the spirit world very clearly. I watched my Pappy’s ailments get better with magic potions, a mending of his soul, and lots of licks from me. My slobber is the best medicine ever! I got to go with Pappy to Dr. Dekel’s office and even to Cathy’s gym. These two people are serious about health, so Cathy had Pappy lifting heavy weights—heavier than me!—and Dr. Dekel had Pappy taking vitamins and supplements. Pappy was becoming more like me—I have to take a lot of crazy medicines, too. I am telling you about all this 6 P’s stuff because my family takes the care of their earthly carriages very seriously. Hence, I take it seriously, too. When we were in Upstate New York for my surgery, Dr. McNamara said to my parents, “You guys are cool, always thinking of preventive care. I wish more pet parents did that.” Well, I know I come from a cool family in every way and was happy for the recognition. Too often, little attention is given to what is right; it seems everyone is more worried about what’s wrong or what might go wrong. I, Shellbee Ann Campbell, know that the secret to a good life is to just deal with the bad stuff and quickly move on to the good times.

  The day came for Pappy’s surgery. I said goodbye and waited at home impatiently. Other than sleeping with brother Jimmy, I stayed on my cow pillow at the top of the stairs. By now you know I hate cows, so what do my parents buy me? Cow-colored pillows. Howl! Mommy told me they had to go to Dr. Michael Marin at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. Dr. Marin is like my Dr. McNamara, not a “puppy cutter” but a “people cutter.” These kinds of doctors are called surgeons. Becoming a surgeon is a big accomplishment in life—lots of extra schooling and then long, grueling workdays where you might have to save someone’s life. Howl! Better them than me! I like a predictable day with naps. In the end, Pappy had to have three surgeries, six weeks apart, so that’s a total of six sleeps apart! Every time Pappy came back home from a surgery, I got better and better at helping him heal. I may never become a surgeon, but I’d make a darn good nurse!

  I had to wait two sleeps after the first surgery; then a car pulled up and Mommy got out, and the driver and brother Jimmy helped Pappy out. Pappy was bent in half, walking slowly to the house, up those stairs—the stairs that used to trip me. I was so excited to see him, yet I knew this was a no-jumping greeting. Being aware of my body space is so important at times like this—don’t get too close and never underfoot. Once Pappy was safe in bed, I knew right away what my job was: to nurse him through his recovery. A lot of my job involved sniffing. Pappy smelled different. He had been in a strange place with chemicals, and he was anxious in pain. I remember this feeling from my “puppy cutter” experience, so I gently climbed onto our bed, went to the top of his head, and wrapped my arms around his neck. Very soon after, I felt his breathing steady, and we both drifted off to sleep. Pappy’s healing process was our summer and fall of 2011. No worries, though—we still found ways to have fun. I would hike and swim with Mommy, and once Pappy was well enough, he would join us or come and watch.

  The second surgery was scary because it made Pappy walk like the monster that Dr. Frankenstein made. When I saw Pappy get out of the car and start heading toward me, I ran up the steps in the house and waited there. That monster looked like Pappy, as he walked with stiff, straight legs and rocked like a boat in high seas. I knew all about Frankenstein because Mommy had one of her own for Halloween that walked when she turned its key. I don’t like the monster, but I love my Pappy, so I learned to love the monster when Pappy turned into him. Pappy was in a lot of pain. He yelped with every step. I could see that nursing him to recovery was going to be a real challenge this time. Having Pappy-Monster clunk about the house was painful to watch. His yelping went on with each step for days. Now, I am not a doctor, but it sure seemed to me that he still needed hospital care. Dr. Marin doesn’t let his healthy patients linger but a night in the hospital; his years of experience have taught him that it’s better to “go home—less chance of infection.” Geez, I guess that makes sense, but Pappy’s first few days at home had me fretting. I lay my seventy-pound
body at the top of his head, put my paws together, and prayed he didn’t have to move too often. Eventually things did brighten up. Pappy started going to physical therapy and working out again with Cathy as well as taking oodles of concoctions from Dr. Dekel.

  By now Pappy had a big cut in his belly and a twelve-inch cut down his leg, but he wasn’t off the hook yet. He had to go back to the “people cutter” one more time. Since I wasn’t allowed at the hospital, I had to rely on brother Jimmy. He would talk on the crazy voice-transmitting box and then he’d report back to me. I am a great listener, and I demand all the details. Whenever Mommy called, I would slap brother Jimmy with my paw. I wanted the information immediately so my fur wouldn’t turn gray from worry. Brother Jimmy even put the crazy box to my ear to listen to Mommy’s voice. I would snort, wag my tail, and look into brother Jimmy’s eyes. Brother Jimmy’s eyes tell it all. They mostly twinkle because he’s happy and mischievous most of the time. These calls from Mommy brought twinkles and relaxed the tension around his eyes—that’s how I knew all was well. Mommy said, “No more cutting Pappy’s parts open.” Thank God! Mommy also said that “Dr. Marin had never seen aneurysms so big,” but he was still able to put Pappy back together, good as new. We all headed into another recovery, Pappy-Monster yelping and clumping about, but we were in the homestretch of a grueling medical journey. My nursing skills had reached near perfection with all the practice I’d had. I would sniff at Pappy’s cut spots (they smelled clean), and I’d wrap myself around his head while licking away his sweat beads of pain. I even stayed by his side for every clumping monster walk and cleaned up every crumb of food he dropped.