LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
BOOKED Solid |
Review by Rebecca James |
Marley & Me, by John Grogan
(Rebecca's friend Chubbs) When I first saw Marley & Me on The New York Times hardback nonfiction bestsellers list, I thought the novel might be cute at best, but after a few friends raved about the book, I gave it a closer look. The author is a journalist, most recently for the Philadelphia Inquirer, and he resides in a small town near my home in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Okay, I thought to myself, I'll give it a try; after all, I love animals, and Marley is the very large misbehaving golden retriever on which the book is centered. As it turned out, I loved the book. I laughed at Marley's antics and his desperate owner's grumblings. I had tears forming as Marley grows older, stiffer, and slower. Beth and I lost her golden retriever three years ago, and I recalled missing her naughtiest moments the most, just as Marley's owner found himself hoping for any sign of mischievous behavior as the big guy slowed down. With its lack of gay themes, I never thought I'd review the book for Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. A few weeks later, however, another ordeal began that made me reconsider the importance of the novel. I didn't notice it at first, the ribs slowly emerging from under the protective layers of fat that earned Chubbs his nickname fairly early in his ten years of life. We had a busy winter and an even busier spring; Chubbs was still prompt for dinner at five o'clock every evening. He would sit at full attention, staring desperately at the refrigerator even with the bowl of dry food on the floor in front of him. "Wah! Wa-ahh!" were his plaintive cries. Eventually, though, his listlessness caught my attention and a trip to the vet confirmed our fears: Chubbs's kidneys, which were never very good, had dropped to an alarmingly low rate of functioning. He had lost several pounds by that point, so the vet suggested manually flushing his kidneys by administering IV fluids at home every day. I sat dutifully with the technician that evening, watching as she poked the needle under the skin ("subcutaneously" administered fluidsthe term took me back to a foggy four weeks of a summer anatomy and physiology class I took as an undergraduate, but that was better than focusing on the present situation). Every day thereafter, Chubbs and I would curl up together in the floor of the dining room, watching the fluid drip rapidly into a small vial, then follow its meandering route through plastic tubing and under his skin. A large lump would form at the point of insertion until the fluids were absorbed, a process that would unfortunately require increasingly fewer minutes as the weeks went by. As we sat, his characteristic rumbling purr and snorts (he always sounded like a pug) would accompany the little bubbles and drips. Soon, however, it became obvious that the fluids were not enough. The vet used words like "kidney failure" and "wasting" as he carefully explained the situation. At 11 pounds, my large orange tabby was skeletal, half of his fattest, albeit brief, weight of 22 pounds. More alarming was his sudden inability to walk; his muscles were breaking down and his poor back legs touched the floor all the way up to the top of his foot bone, an area that usually is like a knee on a cat. Reluctantly, I agreed to one final blood test to confirm what the vet suspected. Beth was quiet as we left the vet that night with Chubbs nestled in my lap. I was ridiculously hopeful, blathering nervously about vitamins, supplements, more fluids. The next day, I gripped the receiver tightly as I listened to the results of the blood test. I had locked myself in an empty classroom; it was an art room at the basement level in school and the cool, dank, smells of pottery glazes, and linseed oil became easier to concentrate on than the quiet, calm diagnosis by Dr. Rush. In a controlled voice, I made an appointment for 11:30 with a sympathetic secretary. I went alone, something not easy to explain to Beth, the veterinary staff, or my friends. Beth loved him just as much as I did; it was Chubbs's dog-like presence that helped ease her grief after the death of our golden retriever. But we have always had a tacit understanding that pets we brought into the relationship six years ago were the primary responsibility of the person who had them first. I was the cat person, she had the dog. I do not "let go" easily. I was stoic when Beth needed me three years before. I knew that if she came with me that day, I would not fully grieve. As I knelt beside my frail and drowsy cat that last time, I held his face in my arm and approximated his preferred spooning position as best I could. Dimly, I could hear the vet's murmur about which solution was being administered, then I was left alone. I sobbed unabashedly into the fur of my friend of ten years. My tears landed just below his eye and remained there, perfect droplets in the corner where the white met the stripes, even after the teary-eyed technician took him from me. As I lay in bed later, I thought again about the novel I read so casually a month or so ago. The ability of the author to find humor in his memories of Marley gives me hope. Even with more gay couples creating or adopting children, I find that many of my friends have special bonds with the furry children that occupy so much of our hearts. Marley & Me is a special bookread it and see. Rebecca James divides her time between Allentown, Pennsylvania, where she teaches English, and Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. She just completed her Master's of Education and is looking forward to the first uninterrupted summer of reading and writing she's had in quite a while. She may be reached at jamesr@allentownsd.org. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 16, No. 6 June 2, 2006 |