wheels, salmon, and seventeen years of joy

a tribute to Parker Joe the pug on wheels

Meet Parker Joe, the pug on wheels! If you look closely, there’s a bronze hoof print beneath him with his name alongside my late pug, Clem. My roommate, Dave, made a donation to the Pike Place Market expansion in their honor. You can find the hoof print near the northern steps, overlooking Victor Steinbrueck Park.

My dog is dying.

Not right this minute. Not today, and probably not tomorrow. Maybe not even this month, or this year. But soon. He’s getting very sleepy these days. And he is seventeen.

In the past few months, he’s gone from one medication a day to five, all taken at varying times, along with three supplements. He’s had new health conditions cropping up every month—nothing overly major, but nothing that seems to be fully resolving, either. He’s been anxious at night, and we learned he’s actually sundowning, just like people with dementia. He doesn’t always finish his food in his bowl—an automatic red flag.

I’ve gone through this before, and I know the signs.

We just try to keep him comfortable now, and we try to find a few activities he will like beyond sleeping. Some days are better than others. Soon we will have to make that dreaded call—you know the one I’m talking about. The decision that shouldn’t be our decision to make. The decision that some people judge me for not having made sooner.

Or things may happen naturally. My roommate doesn’t sleep very well, because he worries Parker will pass in his sleep. We often catch ourselves staring at him, just to make sure he’s still breathing.

I don’t tell you this to get sympathy. Or likes. Or advice. I’m not looking to share a burden or bring you all down. I’m grieving, but I’m actually grateful that this is a topic I am able to talk about. I waited too long with my last dog, so with Parker, my roommate and I are always on the lookout for when it might be time. And it might be soon. That sounds selfish and makes me feel guilty to say, but we worry about making him suffer. We want him to be at peace.

My point is, I’m not trying to take this to a dark place, heavy as it may be. I’m actually trying to be very intentional about stepping into this liminal phase of death and dying. Where do we focus our energy in these final days to truly honor his spirit?

I find myself a collector of “lasts.”

I should really be present for this, I think—it might be his last. His last stroller walk through the park. His last trip to Pike Place Market to get salmon from the fishmongers. His last swim in the bathtub. (We have our special moments in between dog paddles, where I rub his back and kiss his head.) His last blow dry after his swim, when he finally gets to relax and just enjoy the warmth.

How often do we have our last something and never realize it? How often do we get the opportunity to really appreciate the last time we do something we love?

As I come to terms with the fact that my dog is dying, I find myself experiencing a mix of pain, sadness, gratitude, and relief. I want to be a source of comfort—to him, to my roommate, to myself. I think death can be a beautiful thing—the ending of a long and joyful journey. The beginning of something new that we don’t yet fully understand.

This week, I want to use this space to celebrate Parker’s life. I’ve heard of people hosting celebrations of their own lives before death, and I think it’s genius. I love the idea of taking a moment to appreciate his legacy while he’s still around. It shifts the energy from fear, stress, anxiety, and worry into warmth, gratitude, joy, and love.

I am grieving a beloved pet who hasn’t yet passed, but will soon. I am celebrating a friend who has improved so many lives and deserves to be cherished in the end.
Oh, and I reserve the right to have more celebrations of his life—as often as I want—before and after his death. But I’m taking the time now, because why not now?

Embracing death and dying helps us appreciate life. We build this connection through stories.

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A celebration of Parker the pug on wheels

Parker came to us as a foster pug through a rescue. He was five years old, and he didn’t walk very well due to a congenital spine disease. He mostly scooted around the house using his front legs. He became a little bodybuilder with a powerful chest and arms and scrawny back legs. The rescue’s neurologist told us nothing could be done—that surgery could make his situation worse. We fell in love and decided to keep him.

He spent his first few years with us walking the cobblestone streets of Pike Place Market, where we lived. He couldn’t handle the slippery tiles through the high stalls, but he loved walking along Post Alley near the gum wall, searching for snacks. His mobility declined over the years, and we kept up the walks even though they were slow going and a little clumsy.

Pike Place Market was challenging, because every ridiculous tourist / stranger has an opinion and feels inclined to share it with you. Sometimes I would take him for short walks, rotating between a leash and giving him breaks in a stroller. If he was strolling, someone would ultimately yell “Let him walk!” and if he was walking, someone would scream “Pick him up!” People are the worst. Everyone wanted to talk about his condition, ask me how old he was, and insert themselves into the situation in some way.

Despite the limping and unsteadiness on his back legs, he loved walking more than anything. Eventually, we talked to his neurologist about getting him fitted for a wheelchair. We’d been putting it off, worried his back legs might lose what little strength they had. But she convinced us to contact a company called K9 Carts on Whidbey Island. We sent in his measurements, and the rest is history.

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WHEELS!!!

For Parker’s tenth birthday, we drove over an hour and took a ferry to Whidbey Island, where he was introduced to his spanking new cart. They showed us how to strap him in, and we barely got him fastened before he TOOK. OFF. RUNNING!!!!!! Truly like a bat out of hell. We couldn’t believe it—we had to go chasing after him so he wouldn’t get lost. Or stuck. (Reversing is still not his strong suit.) We couldn’t stop crying. He was so happy.

We went over to Fort Ebey State Park, where a friend of mine was camping, and met her for a short hike along the bluffs. He was having the time of his life—like a whole new dog. It was as if he was made for running and walking but just couldn’t do it in the body he was given. That first weekend on wheels, he ran so hard on the cobblestones of Pike Place Market that they actually fell apart, and we had to tighten the fittings every day after that.

Parker made friends with all the fishmongers, especially at Pure Food Fish, where they gave him smoked salmon every morning. Once he had his wheels, he didn’t mind running through the slippery tiles—especially if it meant treats.

The fishmongers shout his nickname—“WHEELS!”—every time they see him coming, and it makes him run faster. He makes the rounds from Pure Foods to Sosio’s and then sometimes to the crafts line, where a few choice vendors know exactly what he needs. We even have an artist friend, Rosie, who created a sticker inspired by him. (You can purchase it here.)

Parker is an inspiration. People see him on his wheels, running through the market, and it makes them smile. He gives people hope and a little bit of joy in their day. We don’t mail out holiday cards to friends or family, but we do make holiday cards with his face that we hand out to the fishmongers—and we’ve seen them hanging around the shops and the back bar at Athenian.

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Exceptionally happy

I remember one year we took him for a checkup with his neurologist. She was giving him a referral for swim therapy and running through all her diagnostics and tests. At the end of the appointment, he was full of energy, scooting around the office and smiling up at her. She laughed and said, “Well, in my professional opinion, all I can say is that you have an exceptionally happy pug!” (We bragged about this to pretty much anyone who would listen.)

Parker is a goofball. A happy boy who loves salmon. He’s impatient, snatching treats into his giant mouth. “Watch your fingers!” we used to tell people before he lost most of his teeth. He’s always hopping around on his bed barking quietly and insistently at us when it’s time for dinner.

He’s also a deeply emotional, sensitive Pisces boy. He can feel your sadness, your fear, your joy. He would scoot up to my roommate on bad days, dip under his arm, and rest his head on his chest—looking up with a mix of understanding and worry. Just being there. When my sweet pug Clem was dying, he got in her bed with her and snuggled her to sleep. He’s always been a source of comfort for anyone who needed it.

Now he’s dying, and we often sense my sweet pug Clem around—like she’s come back to be with him in his time of need. There’s another ghost dog in our apartment who makes his presence known with phantom whining. We think he might be here to help too. (I’ll save that story for another time.)

Parker isn’t dying today, but it’s getting close. He doesn’t run through the market anymore, and some days he’s too tired to walk or swim. But he’s still with us—still a sleepy, sweet gentleman. Still enjoying his Pike Place smoked salmon many times a day. (It’s great for taking pills.)

Thank you for giving me space to share a few of his stories, for letting me celebrate his joyful little life—a little life that has made a huge impact.

If you’d like to see Parker the pug on wheels in action, I’ve included a short video I made last year. And if you have a Parker memory of your own—or want to share a story about a pet you’ve loved—I’d be honored to hear about it in the comments.

parkerthepugonwheels

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Thank you and hauntingly yours,
dreary dendrophile

You can also buy me a coffee if the spirit moves you: