Shellbee's Story

  Fall was here, and Pappy was still recovering, so we had my birthday party at home this year. All the usual littermates came, and the festivities were great. Mommy had a bakery make me a birthday cake with an ocean scene and seashells on it. She whispered to me, “This cake, Shellbee Girl, looks a lot like Pappy’s and my wedding cake.” How cool is that? It was very expensive (as I often hear discussions about money), but that didn’t matter to Mommy or me because we had a lot to celebrate: my birthday, of course, and the end of Pappy’s journey, which was worrisome to both of us. Plus, Pappy still had two legs that worked well, and the monster walk was gone.

  Just so you know, us caregivers—known as the worried well—have a lot of work to do, and it takes its toll. So remember, when someone is taking care of you, don’t bite or whine. I never do, and neither did Pappy. Mommy is another story. She isn’t such a good patient. She doesn’t bite or whine, but she snaps—though never at me!

  Before I get to Mommy, I want to fill you in on a few other times I had major medical dramas. When I was five years old, I developed a mysterious illness. It was bad news and seemed to require a lot of experts. It happened when Pappy and I went to Georgia and Mommy flew in two weeks later to meet up with us. I love greeting Mommy at the airport. Lots of people pet me and bark about my beauty. Normally I love that sort of thing, but I barely notice when I’m in the airport because my entire being is vibrating with joy. Mommy’s coming!! Mommy always pops out from around some corner and kneels down with her arms open to catch me. I charge at her faster than a speeding bullet, ears flapping about, grinning wildly. We hug, give kisses and hiney scratches (mine, not hers), while people around us comment on the intense love emanating from our reunion. During this particular reunion, Mommy stopped our hugging, felt me all over, and looked at me again with her hawk eyes. She questioned Pappy, “What has happened to Shellbee???” Pappy explained that I hadn’t been eating much, but I seemed fine. I wasn’t fine. My appetite was low; I felt very tired and achy all over. Once we got back to our house in Georgia, I collapsed going up the many stairs to our door. Pappy carried me to the truck, and we sped away to a twenty-four-hour veterinary service. I tried to act fine. I was still overjoyed to see Mommy, but she was very worried. My weight had dropped from seventy pounds to fifty-four, a mere shadow of my former self. Not good news for little old me. That’s how I came to meet Dr. Howes, my Georgia vet.

  Dr. Howes was so kind and gentle that I didn’t even try hiding from him. He was very concerned about the results from my lab work. I don’t know the scientific details behind it; all I know is my blood was a mess. Mommy and Pappy decided to go back to New York straightaway so we could see Dr. Lu. I don’t remember too much of this part. Some new medicines were prescribed, but things still got worse. My ankles blew up with puffy rings, which made me walk on my tippy-toes (when I could walk). So off we went to my love, Dr. McNamara, in Hopewell Junction, four hours from our house. Mommy and Pappy have made a habit of finding doctors far away from home, which always means a hotel stay. I love hotels—jumping onto beds, eating crushed ice, and ordering room service! Dr. McNamara and I became so close when I had to get surgery that he’s “Uncle Paul” to me now; I’d argue that we’re blood relatives because I am sure we came from the same line of loyal, brilliant, courageous ancestral canines. So Uncle Paul crawled into the room for our meeting. I couldn’t even stand up to greet him, but my tail wagged furiously. Decisions were made; Uncle Paul would have me go to sleep again so he could check my weird puffy ankles and bring in another trained dog doctor, Dr. Jennifer Fryer, who specializes in all the inner parts of the body. A gizzard doctor! Internal medicine woman. It all happened pretty fast. I went to sleep and woke up again. I am guessing things looked grim for me because I woke up howling in pain. I curled up into Mommy’s arms in the examination room. The pictures of my gizzards were bad—my innards were shutting down. My blood had to be sent to several labs across the country for scientific analysis, and I had to take medicine for the pain, swelling, and treatment of a possible tick-borne disease. I hate ticks so much, feasting on me, making me sick. Evil parasites! It seemed to be one of those times in life where prayer and medicine came together. I got better, slowly, and was switched to organic home-cooked meals, and, of course, I had some family member next to me 24–7. My poor family had the saddest eyes during my slow recovery. Fear not—it all ends well. As I rested, my gizzards got back to working, and I could walk without pain. All I can say is ticks are real bad and serve only one purpose: to cause misery!

  Now on to my eye story. We were at the beach camping when Mommy, ever vigilant, noticed that my right eye was fire-red, not the white part—the pretty brown circle. This was another medical mystery, so I got to meet another favorite specialist of mine: Dr. Jane Cho in Ardsley, New York, more than a two-hour ride away. Dr. Cho is so sweet and laughs so softly; she loves to pet me and has never once scared me—well, except for that one time when she put on a crazy eye hat that jutted out of her face and used it to look into my eye. I admit that the first time I visited her, I knocked that weird hat right off her head. I just loved looking at her happy, kind face. (Don’t worry, the crazy eye thing didn’t break.) Rest assured, Dr. Cho made sure I didn’t give her a left hook with my paw again. After checking out my eye, she told me that the redness was from an anterior bleed behind my eyeball. Why? That part stayed a mystery. No injury had occurred, no noted disease, so Shellbee had done it again—boggled everyone’s mind. One thing is for sure: God gave me a carriage that requires lots of experts to come into my life. Our visits to Dr. Cho were always combined with a picnic lunch and chasing geese at the park nearby. Dr. Cho really loves me. I could feel her essence emanating toward me. Much later on in my life, Dr. Cho was very helpful to Mommy during my final medical event. Many doctors came together to help and guide us: Uncle Paul was there also. He had a difficult time dealing with my final event because it marked an end to our physical connection. No one wanted our love fest to end. I can tell you this: the journey of my life was filled with daily celebrations.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Now I have to tell you about Mommy, the snappy patient. One winter, Mommy needed surgery, so in came another “people cutter.” The surgery went fine, Mommy rested and I curled up beside her. (We always fit well together in any physical space.) Then something strange happened. Mommy got really sick. Her body was burning hot, but she felt freezing cold. I stretched my body out as long as I could to give her heat from my black, furry self. I left my position only when I could no longer ignore strong needs, like hunger and my bladder. Pappy was worried; Mommy had something called the “flu.” All Mommy wanted was me in the room with her, and she snapped at anyone else who came to help. I understood how she felt. One time I had a fever and hid under a bush in the backyard. All Mommy wanted to do was hide until it was all over, except she’d never want to hide from me. I stayed next to her for many days and nights ’til she got better.

  Everyone in my family approaches all medical events with the attitude that we just need to deal with them so we can move on and let the good times roll!

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  P A R T 8

  CONCLUSION

  Letter 31

  Perched on High

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. I have shared so much of my life with you, and it’s all been good times for me. But I haven’t told you much about a certain place that’s very special to me. It’s a place of many scenes to watch, company to keep, and dreams to dream. It’s a consistent refuge for me, a peaceful place to go to in this very busy life I lead. It is at the top of the stairs by a glass doorway that overlooks my front yard. I love this place so much and for so many reasons which may sound simple yet are very complex. Our house is a “high ranch”—we don’t have any cows, goats, or horses at our ranch, but there is an abundance of life-forms. Outside our front door is a special deck, built for me by John, an extraordinary man who can fix or build anything. John remin
ds me of a Bullmastiff because he is strong and powerful but very sensitive. John and I have been in love for years. In fact, he loves me so much that he rebuilt our deck, putting the steps closer together so it’s easier for me to climb when my elbows are hurting me. John also made sure I had a ramp that went from the backyard to our deck, which is so high up in the sky, and he even insisted that the stairs into our house be carpeted so I have a better grip. I admit, some days looking up at any set of stairs gives me pause: I have to balance my body, steady my mind, snort, and up I go. Everyone in my family is always ready to help, but I don’t let them. I, Shellbee Ann Campbell, can do it myself!

  At the top of these stairs in my special place, I rest on my cow pillow and look out over my ranch’s domain. I see squirrels, bunnies, birds, other dogs, people, and cars go by. I have to tell you—squirrels are very funny creatures. Always too fast for me to catch, but they love to taunt me. With those beady, black eyes, they have the nerve to stand on my deck, wiggle their tails, and heckle me. When I was younger, these squirrels would dupe me into charging down the stairs, hopping up and down, barking, and growling—all with the glass door protecting them from me. But as I’ve aged (matured, I’d say), I sit on my cow pillow, give them a low growl but not move, letting those little, beady-eyed squirrels know their tricks didn’t work on me anymore.

  Mommy and I have spent countless days together at the top of the stairs. Mommy shares the ice from her water, and we chat for hours about what we see out the window, or we share secrets about our lives. Very often Pappy joins us, sitting a few steps below. As simple as this scene is—one dog, two humans—it shows the complex essence of our loving bond. Sometimes I sit up, lean on Mommy, and bury my head into her neck for long hugs. Mommy calls them “special huggies.” Pappy sometimes pops up and steals kisses from both of us. Other times, I simply rest my head on Mommy’s knee, which is always at the perfect height. Whether we’re quiet or we chat, sitting at the top of the stairs with them is one of my most favorite things to do: being all together gives us a feeling of peace. Mommy told me there are a lot of special things that remind us of how we are all a part of the greater whole. I understand this instinctively and without the fear that most humans feel toward the prospect of life on earth ending.

  We have all probably experienced someone transitioning to the spirit world. Each passing is unique to that person. Dogs experience this transition as being released, and we have no fear because we know where we are going.

  My family had a dear friend named Peter Sereduke, Esq. I am told Peter had a sense of humor that was sharp and quick. Plus, he was a very important lawyer who knew the law like no other. I have been told that laws are based on the greater good, but the greater good tends to become a moving target. Peter would teach Mommy about case law as it related to her work. He could make magic out of the law, always finding something to support his argument. I bring him up because he was one of those people on earth who was not afraid to pass over to the other side. Mommy told me all about Peter; when he was very sick in the hospital, he said to her, “Let’s bag it, Jen.” Peter had decided that his body wasn’t going to be able to keep him on earth anymore. Peter also knew he could be with God, so off he went. As sad as my family was to see him go, they were all impressed by his bravery, and most impressed by his deep faith in God.

  So Peter bagged it on May 13, 2002, but before he left, Mommy and Pappy asked him to do a couple of favors from Heaven. Now, this part I know to be true because, after Peter settled into the celestial world, he led my parents to their house in Georgia, which they had long been searching for. Then he checked out all the dogs ready for another life on earth, and with a twinkle in his eye and a dimple in his cheek, he rousted me from the vibrant band of light—part of everything which I had become. I was chosen to return to earth and bring happiness, joy, and love to a new human family for as long as I could stay.

  Well, just like Peter, it’s soon going to be my time to go, a change which came about very suddenly.

  As you know from reading my letters, I have had many bodily encounters throughout my life. This last one has come as such a surprise to me, I’m not even sure how to explain it. I haven’t been feeling well; my trap hurts a lot. It makes me eat funny, biting at the bowl, food flying about. I can’t even lick up the mess. Mommy just recovered from surgery and that awful flu, and now she’s watching my food debacle, cocking her head from side to side and trying to figure out what’s wrong. I’ve broken one of my carnassial teeth before, so I’ve had to deal with being pinned down and having my trap pried open. I don’t like it. This time Mommy takes me to Dr. Tim Brown, my new favorite vet from Setauket Animal Hospital. Oh, the trouble I try to give him—clenching my trap shut. This doctor has some crazy way of making my trap fly open. Dr. Brown figures out that the problem is my tongue; it is very sore and painful, though not sore enough to keep me from eating (messily). Well, you can guess where Mommy, Pappy, and I go next: straightaway to Uncle Paul (Dr. McNamara), who decides it’s best to make me sleep again and do some puppy-cutter work.

  Now we’re going to a special trap/tongue vet in a whole new place. I can smell the fear on Mommy and Pappy as we travel in a different car, a van! Mommy and Pappy want me to have a big floor space filled with my beds, toys, blankets, and pillows. This trip doesn’t feel so good. I can feel it in my belly, mostly because Mommy and Pappy are so scared. This new puppy cutter fixes my trap a little to make me more comfortable, but I still don’t feel very good. My belly hurts, my trap hurts, and I know it is time for me to go. Mommy and Pappy know it, too, and promise to help me when the time comes. Mommy and Pappy plan the day; I’m thankful for their help but sad, knowing how painful all of this is for them. Mommy and I sit outside. It’s morning and still dark. Wrapped in blankets, I shiver from the cold, but I want to be outside. I give Mommy lots of special huggies, and I lick her wet face. Her eyes are dripping as she tells me story after story of our life together. We talk about all our evenings watching the fireflies blink bright lights. Mommy and Pappy say, “Aha” pointing to each light the fireflies make by magic. Soon I find the pattern of the fireflies dance of light looking before I hear “Aha!” and soon I will become a part of the endless sea of energy; the creation through which we are all connected with love! Then the sun comes up, and I know it’s time to say goodbye. I have on my favorite pink hoodie with heart-shaped sparkles. I’m holding my stuffed whale, the toy I always grab when I feel sick, and I’m wearing my favorite daisy collar with my therapy dog tag.

  And so it is in this spot, this very special place at the top of the stairs on my cow pillow, that I lie down, waiting with Mommy and Pappy for Dr. Brown and Linda Osborne, the best vet tech in the world. Dr. Brown and Linda are going to help me bid farewell when it is time for my physical form to transform and become a part of everything. What has brought me to this point, my physical struggle, really isn’t important. What is important is that my brother Jimmy, sister-in-law Jen, Mommy, and Pappy are all here with me, and they will always be with me.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  9-3-04 to 3-2-14

  Loving God, our beloved pet and companion, Shellbee,

  is on her final journey.

  We will miss Shellbee dearly because of the joy and affection

  she has given us.

  Bless Shellbee and give her peace.

  May your care for Shellbee never wane.

  We thank you for the gift that Shellbee has been to us.

  Give us hope that in your great kindness you may restore Shellbee

  in your heavenly kingdom according to your wisdom,

  which goes beyond our human understanding.

  Amen.

  Letter 32

  Transition

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. Today is my tenth birthday. I’m not on earth for my celebration, but I am very happy and peaceful. Today my Pappy spoke to me with the help of a pet psychic medium, Susan Deren. I’ve done this once before with Momm
y, but back then I was very new to the spirit world.

  My first trip from spirit world to earth took a lot of energy. I showed up at Susan Deren’s with beads around my neck and my three birthday hats on. That Susan is a barrel of laughs! She couldn’t stop cracking up at the sight of me. I showed off my vibrant color to her and wiggled like Jell-O, all of which she explained to Mommy. Susan bridged my connection to Mommy by relaying to her everything I said and did. I told Mommy that I am a princess who had to go ahead of my time. In the spirit world, there is no pain. My youth and vibrancy are back. Then I decided to really make Mommy happy. I burst into song, and Susan sang out loud for Mommy. I sang all the songs that were sung to me on earth, all the songs that were made up for me. It was the funniest thing ever—Susan was “wooing” loudly and laughing. Susan explained she had never had a dog sing to her before or speak to her so articulately.

  Every day of my life on earth was filled with words, stories, and songs—and all of those things became a part of who I am and always will be. I showed Susan my stuffed animal (hump puppy), which gave me comfort when I chewed on it. I showed Susan our house in Georgia, a place that was all about my family being together. Susan understood that I was happy every day of my earthly life and I really loved being with my family and friends. I miss Mommy, Pappy, brother Jimmy, sister-in-law Jen, and my friends, but I had to continue on my journey.

  It’s been six months since I said goodbye. I knew it was time to go. My body was a mess. I am settled in to eternity, and my spirit lives on. There is no ending, just transformation. Humans believe that their passing is a cleansing. “No way,” I say. I hated baths on earth and don’t need one ever again!