In September of 1997, I started sending my youngest child to preschool so that she could reap the benefits of socializing with kids her own age (and not just her older brother), and I could finally devote more time to writing. My dream was to publish my first novel before turning thirty, and that big birthday was looming, just over a year away. Tick tick tick tick...
I'd written two full manuscripts, medieval romances heavy on period drama, and hadn't had much luck at interesting an agent or editor. I decided to try something new, try writing something more like my favorite Jane Austen books, just to see what would happen. At about the same time, I started researching dog breeds to find the ideal pet for my family. We weren't ready to add a dog, but thought we might do it in the next few years, when the kids were old enough to learn about animal care but young enough to really bond. I discovered pugs and added one to my Work-in-Progress, the one that went on to become my first novel, contracted for publication by Dell Books in August 1998 (two months before my 30th birthday, huzzah!). And, with my newfound author confidence, I convinced my husband that we should look into bringing a pug into our lives sooner than planned.
In January 1999, we brought the kids to a local kennel to see some pugs up close and decide if we could make a match. The four of us huddled on the floor surrounded by pug puppies. Puppies everywhere! They wiggled and bounded right into our hearts and we knew we had to bring one home. But which one? My husband's only caveat- choose a female. We have to have a female (easier to train, in his opinion). But the tiniest, most tenacious of the bunch happened to be a male. He bit on to my daughter's flopping shoelace and would not let go. We all looked to my husband. "Please please please! We love him." And so the runty little male became a part of our family.
What to name him? All the way home (over an hour ride), the pug shared my lap and the four of us tried out names. Riley? Munchkin? Peanut? I finally suggested Drake, in honor of a rakish charmer in my first book and the name of our favorite tavern in our favorite vacation spot, the Sir Francis Drake in Wells, Maine. A Drake's Cakes truck drove by as we deliberated, and it seemed like fate. Drake! We had a Drake.
Drake was never the brightest dog on the planet, but he was lovable and so sweet, the most good-natured creature I've ever known. He hated to be alone so much that even as a tiny puppy, he learned to climb over the child safety gate that separated my work space, the kitchen, from his safe space, the living room. Maybe he was brighter than he let on after all. Two years after adding Drake to the family, we added a corgi, mostly as a companion for Drake. Before long, the corgi decided she (yes, a she-- the husband was right about training a male) was boss and Drake was her minion. But he didn't care, as long as he had more company.
About a month ago, Drake started bleeding from the mouth. He still managed to eat (not much could keep that boy from food) but it was gruesome and trying. The vet discovered squamous cell carcinoma in his mouth, and she told me what to expect, and that short of removing his jaw, not much more could be done. I brought him home and told the family, who nearly refused to believe me. But he seems so happy. Look, he's still eating. Maybe the vet was wrong. But I knew.
Some days, he seemed fine. Other days, the blood was overwhelming. Many times, I ended up on the floor, feeding him out of my hand. And then he started skipping meals. And he started losing weight. And then he became weaker, lethargic. His breathing became labored. And... more unpleasant things started happening to poor Drake until finally, he couldn't eat at all. We had one last weekend. The kids finally accepted what was happening. I called and made the appointment with the vet. Drake preferred the floor to my lap. Maybe it was easier to breathe. I almost expected to wake up and find him already gone, but no. There he was, attempting to wag his tail, ready to go out for his walk. As long as I carried him.
I carried him, his precious weight in my arms, all the way to the vet's office while my husband drove the car. I stroked the velvet wrinkles of his forehead as he drifted off, and looked into his chocolate brown eyes. Just like that, he was gone. But he'll always be with me.
The way he used to run into the dishwasher in his haste to get to his food bowl. How he would lick my pants before settling into place on my lap. His occasional attempts at speech that sounded like he was saying "Golf!" The cock of his head as he tried to make sense of my end of the conversation. Drake, my beloved pug. Always in my heart.
