Elephants

This is a hard one, just fyi. Trigger warnings for depression, self harm, death of a pet.

Did you know there are elephants in Namibia? Desert dwelling elephants that currently only reside from Mali to Namibia. We are planning a trip to Namibia in 2026, and I can’t wait to see them.

But that’s not the elephant I’m writing about in this post. The elephant, is the elephant in the room. The 23 pound fluffy black and tan little man that takes up all the space in my house and my heart. My 13 and a half year old Pomeranian, Calzone.

Every trip, I wonder- is this our last snuggle? Is this the last time he snorts in my ear and licks my face (he always goes straight for my lips no matter how I try to deter him). Is this the last time I disappoint him as I walk out the door with a suitcase and no leash for him?

Time never ceases to turn, and he’s not a young man anymore.

We adopted Calzone when he was six years old (guesstimate) in December 2016. I had been having the worst year of my life. I was 29 and the return of Saturn was doing a number on my sanity. The pills stopped working, I could barely get out of bed, I couldn’t keep a job, or shower myself, or stop thinking about just sleeping through the rest of my days (if not worse). Self harm and alcohol were involved. Brett was desperate to help me. I asked for a dog.

We went to PAWS and found in a room full of excited little pups a sound asleep fluff ball that had no interest in jumping at the window. I met him and he pawed my hands and curled up at my feet. I was done. I had found my man.

I had dreamed for a while about naming a dog Lemon. 30 Rock is my favorite tv show and I imagined yelling “Good God Lemon!” at a dog doing something exasperating. He didn’t “feel” like a Lemon though. Brett suggested the name Calzone as a half joke. It’s his favorite food. I laughed more than I had in months. He was to be Calzone.

I can’t currently write in detail a history of the time with my perfect dog, I will lose it and never finish this post. He’s still alive and happy and healthy currently. He sees a vet more than I see a doctor and that’s saying something. He is a preening, confident, well kept little gentleman. But he’s getting older. And I keep traveling.

In a preposterous turn of events in July 2016 our tortoise, Giles, (Buffy fans unite!) “ran” away. We went to the Dominican Republic on a friendscation and he stayed with a vet tech. She kept him outside during the day in a pen, and he escaped under it and disappeared. We found out in the airport on the way home and I was distraught through the worst entire plane ride of my life. We went to search for him for hours, he was gone. He wasn’t my first tortoise. I had Betty years before and she died of an infection. I purposefully left him with a vet tech during our vacation because of what happened to her.

This was my fault. I was cursed, a terrible pet parent, a terrible human being. I sank lower into the darkness that had been creeping in for 6 months. I can still barely talk about it.

Cal was our light. We brought him home 6 months after Giles disappeared and I started new meds and a partial inpatient program for my bipolar. I fought through wave after wave, fighting to swim instead of sinking. In a longer story, I even scooped him up and ran down a Chicago alleyway running from a husky that broke loose and was crouched like a tiger ready to pounce on him. I went outside to walk him after days of laying in bed and I raced him to the emergency vet when he managed to grab on to half a rack of ribs someone dropped on the parkway by the United Center. I cooked for him and sang to him.

With renewed energy and excitement for life after a year of near nonexistence, we booked a trip to Scotland for May 2017. We were going to drink scotch and hike highlands and explore castles! Then came a tiny voice in the back of my mind. “What if it happens again?”

We have traveled countless times since we got Cal almost 8 years ago. Each time is the same. Yay! Trips, adventures, good food, photography, romance! And each time a nagging little thought that doesn’t go away. “What if…?” The night before a flight or a weekend away I don’t sleep. I take two klonopin and I lay awake and try to distract myself with games and books and Reddit. I lay my hand on my baby’s belly and I feel the rise and fall of his breathing. I say things to him like they are the last time I will say them.

He’s always fine. He stays with grandparents and gets spoiled rotten. They feed him ham and steak and greenies and let him sleep in their rooms. We face time him nearly daily and he sings for us. We ask for regular photos and updates. I always leave a detailed list of his daily schedule and list of vets and emergency contacts. He greets us when we get home with running and wagging and rubbing his face against ours. Then he immediately demands the treats he’s become accustomed to.

We’ve had some health scares recently with Cal. He’s fine for now, great health for a chubby pup his age. But that time will come. And it could be when I’m away. Each year that passes, it gets a little harder to walk out the door. A FaceTime every day. A few extra texts to grandma about how he’s doing. A few more klonopin when those responses don’t come quick enough. More belly breathing and talking through scenarios and laying out of the facts and only the facts in my head. more mental preparation for what ifs and plans for just surviving the trip home if the worst happens.

He’s got a personality the size of an elephant. I’d never travel again if it meant he’d live forever. We’d spend our days on walks with his stroller, barking at the UPS guy, and laying on the couch watching Bender yell “shut up baby I know it!”. so Namibia may happen in 2026. But if I got to keep my elephant at home, I’d skip the real thing in a second.