Meet Marley

ABOUT THE PAST FOUR WEEKS

August, 2024

Nine years ago, Sue and I fell head over heels in love—not with each other. That had happened decades earlier. We’d just retired and moved to the beach in South Florida. I volunteered at a sea turtle hospital, finally fulfilling a lifelong dream. I started writing too. Sue returned to painting, something she’d never had time for. Life felt complete. Then Marley bounded into our lives making everything even better.

Still recovering from the chaos of downsizing, selling our home, and moving hundreds of miles away, we saw an advertisement. Puppies were for sale. Our son, JJ, warned us. “If you go, you’ll come back with one.” I remember raising my eyebrows at Sue. She smiled. That was all it took.

We knew Marley was special from the moment we saw her. Can a dog have the “it” factor? I think so. Her personality made my lips curl into a smile I didn't know I had. And those big, brown eyes of hers—it was like I knew them. I'd found my soul dog.

I’ve always been drawn to the ocean, and Marley shared that love. It's part of the "it" factor I mentioned. She'd chase tennis balls into the surf, ride the waves back to shore, roll in the sand and have herself a blast. Yes. Most definitely my soul dog.

With our careers behind us and our boys living on the other side of the country, Marley became our center. She slept in our bed. She sat with us at meals—on a bench, not eating—we're not those people. She'd wait patiently for scraps, knowing I'm an easier mark than Sue.

Florida wasn’t all joy. Marley was with us through hurricanes, through the pandemic, through horrible politics, and a lonely Covid Christmas that pushed us to move to San Diego to be closer to our sons. In those dark moments, she'd remind us there was still light, still goodness, still something to smile about.

Marley came everywhere with us. We drove across the country three times together because she wasn't permitted to fly. We stayed in LaQuinta motels—not for the ambience, but because she was welcome there. So what if the room was dreary and smelled of disinfectant.

Then, a few weeks ago, everything shifted. It started with a little discharge from her left eye. We wiped it away, not thinking much of it. But her eye started to look smaller. I asked Sue, “Can eyes shrink?” We both felt it—something wasn’t right. The vet brushed it off. “It’s allergies,” she said dismissively. She gave us eye drops. The discharge stopped, but something was different. Marley wasn’t herself. The “it” factor had vanished. Her summer had turned into winter.

On a Sunday morning, we noticed her left eye had sunk into her head. Her cheek felt hollow. She seemed unsteady. “I think she had a stroke,” Sue said.

“Or she got into the vodka,” I offered. “She’s wobbling.”

We turned to Google and found Horner’s Syndrome—something that affects the eye and face. It's caused by nerve disruption. The good news? It usually resolves on its own.

Monday morning, we returned to the vet. “Oh, this is different,” she said, peering at Marley. “Her eye looks smaller.” Sue and I looked at each other. We’d told her that last week.

“We think it’s Horner’s,” Sue said. “She checks all the boxes.”

“Well,” the vet replied, annoyed, “who needs vet school when you have Google?” Sue and I exchanged another look. We would not be coming back.

“This is something else,” the vet admitted. “You need to see a specialist—urgently.” A flash of anger hit me. If she’d taken us seriously the first time, we might’ve gained a few precious days. I kept my cool. Marley crawled under a chair. The earliest neurology appointment was over a week away, so the vet suggested we take her to an emergency hospital. “Don’t feed her,” she said. “She may need anesthesia.”

We spent that night restless, anxious. Sue googled everything, reporting what she learned. “It might be an infection,” she said. “Or auto-immune. Or trauma.” She kept reading before going silent and looking up at me. “Or it’s a tumor.”

The next morning, we arrived early at the emergency hospital. A tech took our information and told us we'd be seen within the hour. That shook us. Is it that serious? Are they rushing us in? We sat in the waiting room, trying to keep it together. Sue wiped away a tear. She cries at everything—TV commercials, animal videos, Simone Biles' Olympic routines. After 40 years together, it still guts me. I had to look away.

Hours passed. We were not being rushed in. Those with appointments came and went. Ignoring the other dogs and cats, Marley climbed between us and settled in. She’s always been more of a people dog.

Eventually, we were called back to a small drab exam room. A man with kind eyes walked in. “I’m Matt,” he said. “I’ve read all of Marley’s history. I think it’s Horner’s.”

Sue’s mouth dropped. “That’s what we thought too." And just like that, I was angry all over again at our original vet.

“Now we need to find out why,” Matt said. He put a drop in Marley's eye and said, “If it's good news, the eye will respond in a few minutes.” Ten minutes passed. No change and Matt returned. “No improvement. That’s not what I was hoping for. Let’s get the neurologist involved.”

More waiting. The neurologist was busy. Hungry, Marley burped like a frat boy. Matt reappeared and looked again. “There’s a delayed response,” he said. “That's interesting. I’m tired of waiting. I'm taking her to the neurologist myself.”

A few minutes later, he was back. “It’s the trigeminal nerve. We’ll schedule an MRI for Friday. We'll need to put her out for that and you need to be ready. If the scan shows something severe, you may have to make a decision—whether to wake her up or let her go.”

I'd been fine until then—really. I was holding it together. Out of character for me. My eyes welled up. I heard Sue's sniffles. I didn't dare look at her. I had to get out of there.

The next two days were excruciating. We changed our minds hourly—tumor, stroke, infection. We tried to stay strong for each other. It wasn’t easy. Friday came. We skipped our coffee and drove to the hospital. Marley sat on my lap, smudging the car window with her nose. Those smudges used to annoy me. Now, they were precious. Like a kid's art on a refrigerator.

While Marley was prepped for the MRI, Sue and I walked by the ocean, hands in pockets, too quiet, too scared. Eventually, we were called in. A woman in scrubs brought us to the neurologist. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Entering the office, we saw Marley’s MRI lit up on a large computer screen. A small photo of her was next to it. It was probably for identification but I hoped it was there as a reminder—love was on the line and they'd better get this right.

“I’m sorry,” the neurologist said. “It’s a large mass. Given the location, there’s not much we can do.” I barely heard the rest. I just stared at that photo and felt my heart crack open. They said the tumor had been growing slowly. If it had developed quickly, she wouldn’t have survived this long. Steroids would reduce the swelling and keep her comfortable.

“She’s not in pain?” I asked.

“No.”

I asked the question we didn’t want answered. “How long?”

“Maybe a month.”

As I write this, Marley is beneath my desk with her front paws on my feet. She’s always done that. I wrote my first two novels with her paws on my feet. She’s a character in both books. Hers is the only real name I used.

She was supposed to be with me at my book launch. I imagined her on the book tour—staying at more LaQuinta motels. That won’t happen now. Writing that sentence takes the breath from me.

As I wait for Marley to tell us it's time for her to leave, I know that one day, Sue will ask if I’m ready for another dog. And even though it will mean going through this heartbreak again, I know what I'll say.

Update - September 2024

            Marley died in my arms on a sunny September morning. It was peaceful. The kind of death I want for myself. A month later, we heard about Maple. Rescued from Baja, Mexico, pregnant, she'd been dropped off in a garbage dump. How could we say no?