One in Two

In case you were wondering, it costs over five hundred dollars to have a stranger with a doctor’s bag come into your Chevy Chase family room and kill your golden retriever.

These days, a grande latte in Chevy Chase, Maryland will run you about $3.36 – that is, if you get it without vanilla or an extra shot. Undoubtedly, that very same day, someone will walk into your Washington DC area Starbucks and throw a hissy-fit about how Starbucks is not donating enough money to Katrina relief efforts, shouting about how Starbucks “takes enough of her money every day,” before willingly handing you, the cashier, nearly $5 for a shot or two of espresso and some milk.

Mind you, this all takes place after you received that phone call that says your dog will die today at 3:30pm, and you should try to get home as soon as possible.

Do you see? Do you see how it all ties together?

Chances are high today that someone you know or see will die. It’s a one in two chance. They either will or they will not. As my man Palahniuk says, the forecast is morose with a chance of disaster.

At 7:10am I opened my bedroom door and tripped over my five-year-old golden retriever. She jumped up, kissed me, shook, followed me around. Something was wrong. She’s usually out for a walk. I did not, however, have time to walk into my family room and see my fifteen-year-old golden retriever laying on the floor, hours from her death before serving $3.36 lattes to people who complain to me about the lack of relief efforts.

We knew it was coming. We all knew it was coming: a hurricane to hit New Orleans, a terrorist attack on New York City, the death of your dog.

You predict and predict and predict and wait and wait, waking up every day with the God-given gift that here you are again, blessed to step into another day.

Alas, we forget. Your grande extra hot no foam two splenda latte might ruin your day if it’s not hot enough. And God save your soul if you get hit by a bus while crossing the street that day. At least your latte’s not hot enough to burn you as the bus breaks your neck and you die, unexpectedly.

Let’s pay attention to the more import ant things.

Remember the time when your fifteen-year-old golden retriever used to bite your little brother’s ankles when they were puppies together and he was learning to walk? Or the time when you were swimming in the ocean, tossing tennis balls for your golden retriever to catch? Remember that? The smell of the pine needles from your Christmas tree and the scarf your dog wore around it’s neck, or the day you sat in the puppy pen making sure you chose just the right one. You were nine. There was a one in two chance you picked the right dog. You picked the best one, remember? You took her home, lavender collar and all. Today the collar is purple and right now it sits in your Chevy Chase family room sans dog. A souvenir of sorts.

This morning maybe your young dog was trying to tell you something was wrong. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t.

This morning when your dad came in to work and leaned in to say, “She’s not doing well… you should… get ready,” you should have taken off your apron just then and walked out the door.

Dogs these days, in this family, they are not dogs. They are your family.

So you turn your back on customers and blink back the tears. You make it home in time to lay on the floor and stare into your fifteen-year-old dog’s eyes’, tears streaming down your cheeks and tell her you love her.

You did not have the chance to do this when your cat ran away when you lived in London. You did not have the chance to do this when your best friend was killed in a car accident when you were seventeen. Your friend, however did – have that chance to say good-bye - to her mother who was dying of cancer. Your friend, the only one in the room, trying to shove food into her mother’s mouth, watched her eyes, watched them turn, “bright green, then glass over” she said. I bet you didn’t think that memory would come back today.

I bet you didn’t think when you tripped over your five-year-old dog that you’d watch your old one get injected with a needle today at 3:30pm by a stranger with a doctor’s bag in your Chevy Chase family room.

There was a one in two chance this would happen. You knew it all along. It either would or it would not.

It’s filler, see. You know what I mean. The lattes, the pub quiz, the stupid boys, bags, shoes. What matters, see – you know what I mean here – is the love. The father coming home early from work to sit with his family as their dog dies in their Chevy Chase family room, the friend that stops by at lunch time to say good-bye, the ones who text message you or leave a message for you.

It’s the look in those eyes, you know what I mean? The ones that are just a little too glossy to be healthy, but when they focus in on you – you can see it through the tears in your eyes – they love you. They smile at you. They try to wag their tail. You had a one in two chance and this time, you won. You got to say good-bye.

And maybe you won too, if you know what I mean. To know that life, your life, is your choice. Your money goes where you put it, your energy goes where you send it, your love goes to those who matter most: those who accept it.

Today I watched a loved one’s heart stop beating, brain stop working, lungs take their last breath and body go limp.

It would either happen or it wouldn’t. It happened. I lost. Or maybe, ultimately, I won.




Christy, left. October 31, 1990 - September 6, 2005.