.:: The StrongBrain Collective ::.

One typical, weekday afternoon when I was in high school, I was near to tears because Jennifer Rezendes said that she didn't want to date me. Understand, I was in love with this girl who laughed at all my jokes and with whom I flirted shamelessly. And I couldn't bear the rejection. So, as you can imagine, I was none too happy.

On days like this, I craved one thing, and one thing only. The couch. An hour-long nap on that utopia usually cured all my ills. But, as step by step en route I discarded my jacket, my backpack, my hat, my shoes and my socks, I saw something that prevented full leg extension on the couch: the family dog.

Lucy, a purebred beagle, whose company I would at another time be ecstatic to enjoy, was the sole hindrance to me washing Jenn's rejection off my mind. Looking down, I watched Lucy's usually permissive eyes seemingly exude a hostile amount of presumption, like she didn't appear willing to grant me my rightful allotment of leg room! Perhaps it was just me, but if I had to read the expression in her gaze, it would be,

"Hey! Tall, eerily-skinny teenager! I know you like to take naps after school, especially when you're wearing a morose countenance you seem to sport more and more nowadays. But don't you dare try and move me. I also had a rough day. I woke up from my own nap on my couch to two cats licking my body, one at my butthole, and the other at my ear canal. Not a pleasant experience, bony boy. So, don't you dare move me, not that your scrawny biceps could lift me anyway! By the way, you let your sister beat you in arm wrestling, right? HA!"

Not pleased, I bent down and roughly lifted Lucy to my face, considering that a couple of face licks from the family dog would help improve my mood. But, instead of licking, she nipped. Right at my face. She didn't draw blood, but I definitely felt teeth. Furious, I looked down at her and saw insolence, not compunction, as her teeth were bared in a continued confrontational manner.

"Fuck you, dog!" I bellowed, and feeling a burst of rage at the dog that undoubtedly included the sting of the earlier unceremonious dismissal by my female obsession, I tossed Lucy onto the couch. No, not tossed. Threw. I threw her onto the couch. But before you dial the ASPCA and report me, my rage did not get the better of me. She was in control and bounced off the back cushion of the couch and landed on her feet; Lucy was physically unhurt.

But she yelped. And her tail became a permanent fixture between her legs for the following weeks, maybe even months, when I was in her presence. The guilt was unbearable. I felt so horrible. I couldn't comprehend the fact that within my soul I had the capacity to perform such barbarity.

It took a decent amount of over-kindness and a rebuilding of trust for Lucy to begin to feel comfortable in my presence once again. But, to this day, I still harbor remorse for that fateful afternoon.

And that's all I can think about today. That memory has sprinted through my mind innumerable times since my mother told me mere hours ago that Lucy was going to have to be put to sleep.

Why can't I focus on the happy memories, and they are indeed plentiful. Why are those recollections running at a slow jog through my mind, continually being out-hustled by the lone painful one in the race to my consciousness?

I dunno, it doesn't matter. While a decade later I'm once again struggling with unrequited love -- just a different girl -- my mother called me today and gave me the news. It's amazing the perspective you gain when your mother's voice cracks on the telephone. And it's impossible for tears to not concave your eyes when you hear your mother take a deep breath so as not to succumb to wails of despair.

So, since this strongbrain entry is entirely for the benefit of my family, I will focus on the positive:

-- This dog was a frickin' wuss. A wimp. Craven. Cowardly. Timid. Scared. Pusillanimous. Go to http://www.thesaurus.com for more synonyms for how wussified this dog was. Lucy was like a frightened child searching out the back of their father's leg for protection from an overbearing stranger. Lucy was afraid of the doorbell. A running gag in our household was to loudly knock on a hard surface and yell "Who is it?" in unison and then giggle mercilessly as the dog yapped and yelped and howled and sprinted towards the nearest wall to peer clandestinely around the corner in an attempt to discern whether the visitor was friend or foe. But there was no visitor in the first place! Mwoo hahahahahahha! This ruse was just one of the many pathetic ways us Chapman's make life a little more lively, and entirely at the dog's expense! Kind of cruel isn't it? In fact, I think I remember not actually taking part in these demonic games. In fact, I think I remember taking a moral stand against them. Dogs are living beings, too, damnit!

-- I'll never forget the day that we bought the erstwhile-unnamed puppy. Our previous dog, Nicky, was a mutt of such mixed lineage that you could safely surmise that all her forbears were professional whores and gigolos. Anyway, my father took me on this trip into the wilderness. I thought he was gonna leave me to be raised by wolves. Seriously, the roads were dirt and the telephone poles stopped crossing my vision miles ago. I'm surprised we even reached our destination, considering we were driving this Toyota truck that was voted three years running as the most rusted metal object currently in existence on Planet Earth. No joke. One time I was driving the truck and the bracket holding the spare tire rusted through. I looked into the rear view mirror after a bang and a bump and saw the tire laughing derisively at me as it rolled off into the sunset, never to be heard from again.

Well, when we made it there, my attitude changed. We were gonna get a new dog. We got Lucy, a months-old purebred beagle whose eyes must have been the impetus for the cliche "puppy-dog eyes." That dog could inspire tears with that crinkled brow and soft, palatable gaze. I stared heartily into those eyes the entire trip home, moreso after I noticed telephone polls appear again. There was not much I knew at that point other than my giddy affection for that shy, shivering entity barely meeting my wondering stare. I loved that dog from that day forward.

-- When Lucy got older, she began urinating uncontrollably. When she got happy. When she got upset. When she got excited. I would come home from perhaps a year away from home and Lucy would bark at me as a stranger, while backing away (she was such a wuss) until she caught my scent, a pleasant scent obviously, but scent nonetheless. After her memory clicked, she began howling in forgotten love and pissing in forgotten bladder control. Any other family members would have to navigate the river of slippery urine in order to hug me. My parents even purchased a "Use Caution! Wet floor!" sign. No joke. Or maybe it is, I'll never tell.

-- When my parents got sick of wiping up dog pee and then not washing their hands, they got Lucy a diaper. Yes, seeing your family dog and the dog of your youth's butt wrapped in a blue diaper could be nothing other than amusing.

But sad as well. I was part of Lucy's life only sporadically since college, nine years ago. But just as much as seeing my family and friends when I would visit Tiverton, RI, I really looked forward to walking through the door and hearing the echo of yelping that only Lucy's unique brand of unconditional love could arouse.

And that is just for me.

There is a whole other level to the kinship my mother and my father enjoy with Lucy. They spent every day with her. She is their best friend, their companion who tempered the monotony of everyday life. Lucy was someone they cried to in sad times and laughed with in happy times. I can say, without the slightest hint of exaggeration or disrespect, that Lucy was my parents' best friend. Even when she was infirm and a sad shell of her former glory, she was their best friend

I guess I wrote part of this entry in the past tense even though Lucy hasn't yet been put to sleep. But she will be soon. Her quality of life is poor, she's in pain, and the previously successful medicinal steps are currently having no effect. Her cough sounds like a dry heave. Her struggles to get around the house are painful to witness. She whimpers. She cries. She doesn't like the way she is feeling.

My mother said that she wishes Lucy would just die, on her own, peacefully and naturally. What my parents are forced to go through is euthanasia. And they are forced to suffer the dreadful question inherent in any decision involving putting someone you love to death:

What if?

What if tomorrow the veterinarian will call with a miracle cure? What if Lucy wakes up tomorrow with more than mere glimpses of her former self and lives another 10 fruitful years? These are painful questions to ask and even more painful to attempt to answer, because there is no answer, because there is no tomorrow once the decision is made.

But, mom and pop, if you're reading and the debate in your mind is raging worse than a small stream in a rainstorm, take heart. The years you hope Lucy will continue to live will indeed occur. But in your memories and in your soul. Your memories will create tears and smiles, sighs and stories. And Lucy will live on.

Just like with me. Lucy forgave me long ago for that indiscretion of which I spoke. Now I can forgive myself and continue down the destiny's path with only the happy memories that we all as a family share. The happy times spent with Lucy will endure. They will make us laugh for the rest our lifetimes as they made us laugh in hers.