An Ode to Wellsie

We sat in a room that was empty, except for the two folding chairs. We were at PAWS, a Chicago-based rescue shelter. After just five minutes, a long-eared, brown-and-white (mostly) basset hound was brought in. He was the last pup left from a litter of eight that had been abandoned. His droopy eyes seemed to tell the story of a rough first few months of life. 

The folks at the shelter called him Brutus, but we would rename him Wellington, after the first street Stephanie and I shared an apartment on. Wellington would come home with us that afternoon. 

 They say we should write obituaries for people before they die, because we say all these heartwarming things that should have been said when the person was alive. So I am going to do that for Wellington. 

Wellington, now 14, has cancer. The lump on his shoulder grows almost daily. He isn't in pain, not yet anyway, but when that day comes, we will do the right thing and put him down. It will be devastatingly sad. 

Stephanie had never had a puppy, and on the first night, Wellington wailed in his crate until she couldn't bear it any longer. She opened the door on the crate, scooped him up and put him on the bed. I protested, telling her that would lead to him sleeping with us every night. It is a conversation I have reminded her about often as I lift Wellsie (what we usually call him) onto the bed, just as I have for a good portion of his life. 

Potty training when you live on the fourth floor of a cramped downtown Chicago flat with no elevator isn't a cup of tea, either. It’s even worse on the rainy days and the snow-blown winter nights, but the sight of those ears nearly dragging on the ground and the droopy eyes made the climb up and down the stairs well worth it. 

The fact we weren't supposed to have a dog in our apartment added to the stress. However, our downstairs neighbors had one, and because the landlord wasn't ever around, we never got in trouble. 

The joy and comfort Wellsie brought us far outweighed the bad times. 

He was there when Steph and I learned she was pregnant. He was jumping and barking, unsure what we were so happy about, but more than willing to join in the celebration. I’m sure the treats we gave him had nothing to do with his glee. 

A few weeks later, Steph had a miscarriage, and when I came home, I remember her lying on the lounge portion of the sectional that was jammed into our tiny living room. Wellsie's head was on her thigh, and Steph was stroking his oversized ears. Those velvet-soft ears have soothed so much pain over the past 14 years. 

We took daily walks to the dog park, five blocks down the street. Although he was neutered, it did not stop him from trying to hump almost every dog in the park. As he attempted to wrap his stubby little legs around any dog willing to stand still for a split second, Steph and I would laugh until we cried.

Wellsie was there for the birth of Annie, and although reluctant to share our affection, he was terrific with her. When we rocked her to sleep as a baby, Wellsie would lay next to our glider chair, content with the occasional pat on the head. 

When Steph unexpectedly got pregnant with Jackson, and we had two kids under the age of 2, Wellsie seemed to understand why the walks weren’t as regular. The table scraps from the kids’ plates were a nice substitute for those trips to the dog park.

I remember bringing Jack home from the hospital after his brain surgery just before his second birthday. Wellsie greeted us at the door, tail wagging. He even "happy peed," which he usually did when he met new people and got too excited. The family was back together. 

There have been countless other memories, both infuriating and hilarious. There was the time Annie turned 6, and we came home to discover that Wellington had pulled the cookie monster cake from the top of the oven and eaten the entire thing. 

The kids thought his blue poop was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Their laughter made everything worthwhile. 

When my dad was diagnosed with dementia and we moved our family back to my hometown to help take care of him, Wellsie often got caught in the crossfire of my dad's anger. Dad would yell at him for being in the way or barking too loud. After one such episode, Annie was sitting with Wellington on the couch. "Don't worry, Wellsie,” she told him. “He's an asshole to us sometimes, too." It was a moment of laughter amid a tough time for everyone. 

There are countless other memories, such as the walks in the woods at my parents' property. For years, Wellsie would run hundreds of yards ahead of me, chasing squirrels and birds. Now, he saunters well behind, never leaving the gravel driveway that winds through the woods. 

There was the time soon after moving in when we accidentally left the front door open. Wellington took it as an opportunity to meet the neighbors. We found him waddling down the road with his long tail pointed straight in the air, wagging furiously as he found his way back home. 

A few weeks ago, we took Wellsie to the vet. The lump on his shoulder had grown. We hoped for a miracle but knew the end was near. "More than likely cancer," the vet told us. We decided pain management was the only thing we wanted to do. 

The pain pills have helped rekindle a younger version of Wellsie. He now gets off his mattress on the floor more than he has in the last year. He lays in the sun while Jack and I play basketball or when Annie and Steph work on the flowers around the yard. Because we know the end is coming, we savor those moments all the more. 

Each night, we make sure to give him a scratch on his barreled chest, just as we have done most nights during the time we’ve had him. He stretches his nose directly in the air, as he always has, enjoying a good itch on the part of his body that his short legs can't reach. When he stretches his nose and I lean down, he gives me a quick lick on my face.  

A best friend in every way. We love you, Wellsie. Before you go, Annie, Jack, Mom, and I just wanted to say thank you for 14 years of fond and unforgettable memories. 

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