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by Kelly Tully

This is a love story between me and my 12 ½ year old silver miniature poodle Arnie. It has a sad ending because it’s an obituary, too.  I’ll just call it the Love Story Obituary for Arnie Tully.  Not sure if that phrase is even legit but since I’ve been crying for 48 hours, I can do whatever I want.

Arnie came into our lives from a breeder in Bardstown, Kentucky.  At the time my daughter was in 1^st grade and my son was 3.  We trekked down from Indianapolis with every puppy item imaginable waiting at the house for his impending homecoming.  I just happened to be the first person to hold him and well, if a heart could purr and melt at the same time, that’s what mine did. Three little pounds of fluff snuggled into my lap, and we bonded before I even put my seat belt on for the ride home.  And for almost 13 years Arnie never left my side.

There was never any puppy drama so many other people I knew endured. He never ate my shoes, never pooped on my best rug, never woke up at 4am to be let out.  Let me pause right there: Arnie did NOT like early mornings. He did his duty and woke up when his people started stirring, but he didn’t like it. (See picture below, this was 6AM Arnie).  I often had a strong sense he would like a cup of coffee too when I was pouring mine, but since dogs can’t hold mugs, I’ll never know.

Arnie filled up our house with a special love we never realized we had been missing.  He made sure his kids were safely off the bus while fastidiously staring down the road at the bus stop. The closer the kids were, the faster his tail wagged. Once inside he literally jumped for joy. He liked to jump for joy on everyone and it was a bad habit I could never break.  I stopped feeling guilty about it about 5 years ago; at least he wasn’t an a-hole dog biting people and being a jerk.

He also had a special skill set as “Night Watchman for Vomiting Kids.” Since almost all kids before the age of 12 seem to have at least one or two nights a year of puking for no apparent reason, Arnie made sure I knew that things were not OK.  It went something like this:

“Mom, I feel sick.”  (This is a raspy half-scream from child in the bedroom). I then run like a bat out of hell and grab the vomit bowl everyone always has in their house for such occasions, and Arnie is on the bed beside the patient before I am. He is sitting far enough back not to be in the way, but close enough to keep an eye on things. He remains in this position until the aforementioned sickness passes, and then, and ONLY then, does he lie down. These nights of sickness are the only time he will not come back to sleep in the bed with us. He remains ever vigilant, standing guard to make sure his person is okay.

Continuing the medical drama narrative, Arnie was also a hero for alerting me and my husband to a severe asthma attack that our then 4-year-old son was having in his bedroom at 2AM.   Arnie started barking like crazy in his crate downstairs (I did crate-train in the beginning, but Arnie bypassed Go and spent the remainder of his years on the luxury of our pillow-topped bed). I ran downstairs and let him out, thinking he needed to go potty, and Arnie zoomed past me and up the stairs to our son’s room.  I had not heard our son wheezing, and quickly grabbed the nebulizer machine. This is a 100% true story and we started calling him our hero-dog.

When he wasn’t saving lives and being a medic, he was a normal dog. Let me say, mostly normal. He did have some OCD tendencies and didn’t like things out of place.

Jacket placed over the back of a chair? No, no no! Or as Arnie said–bark, bark, bark!

Thermos placed on top of the fridge? Bark, bark bark, bark.

Bag of popcorn in microwave getting bigger? Bark, Bark, Bark.

Shoes left on top of the stairs? Bark, bark.

Leaf floating on lake? Bark, Bark.

Arnie was a lover of all people and whipped cream. He may have liked whipped cream better than people. I stopped going to Starbucks with him because it was embarrassing asking for the Pup Cup because it sounded like he was yodeling the entire time I was talking into the speaker.

Arnie loved sunset cruises on the lake, preferably in cooler weather so he could snuggle close to anyone.  He loved when I was up late at night reading a book so he could put his sweet face on my stomach and dream about cans of whipped cream.  I would stop reading and just watch him look so content and peaceful by my side. It was his favorite place—and mine, too.

Which brings me somewhat back to the beginning. Why does a dog need a Love Story Obituary? Because Arnie earned having words typed on a computer screen in his honor. For years he sat behind me in my office chair as I wrote the words to my four children’s chapter books and Young Adult Novel. In my last book I even wrote him a thank you for being there with me as every letter was typed. It’s not often a poodle earns an accolade in a book. He was my cheering section just by being there, so now I need to be his.

The first night I brought Arnie home as a puppy he was scared at his new surroundings, and I put a blanket on the floor and slept near him in his crate. On what would be his last night with me (and I didn’t know it would be) I slept on the couch as he slept on a makeshift bed on the floor so I could be close to him.  We had been to three visits to the vet in four days with no real answers to his unease and uncomfortableness. This Mom instinct knew something was very, very wrong and I am forever grateful that I was able to be by his side in his last hours and soothe and comfort him in the dark of the night—just like he had done with us.  

Rest in Peace with unending whipped cream, Arnold Palmer Tully.

February 6, 2009—October 29, 2021.

I’m taking the wrong pictures.

My daughter is a 16-year old sophomore. She’s almost to the halfway point of her high school existence, and I’ve secretly started to compile years of photos to show at the graduation party we have yet to plan.

So far, these are the photos I’ve put aside (or they might be one of the 4,000 images languishing inside my phone). There’s the first-day-off-the-bus-from-kindergarten picture. First smile-after-the-tooth-fairy-came photo. Hundreds of photos of the backs of other parents’ heads holding a phone or camera also taking photos of the volleyball game win, the choir concert, the piano recital, and the 3rd Grade Thanksgiving Pilgrim Festival. I think you get the point.

Then yesterday, I came across this photo of my grandmother and me, circa 1973 in Miami, Florida. I know this because my grandmother wrote the date and place on the back of every photo ever taken. I love the candidness of this photo; I love how it captured an ordinary moment on an ordinary day. And the more I stared at the faded, curled paper, the more I wondered what happened before the snapshot? Wouldn’t it have been grand to have a small index card attached, giving me more of the story? I imagined it would go like this.

This was taken on a muggy May morning, and you had just eaten your first pieces of mango picked off one of our trees. It was only 10 am, but Grandpa thought it was best to try it over vanilla ice cream. I felt guilty serving you something that decadent so early in the day, but your grandpa convinced me, and the three of us sat inside the screened-in porch and ate our bowls with quiet contentment. You told us over and over in your sweet little voice how yummy the mango was. Then you got cold and wanted to move in the sun. You insisted we drag these two chairs out to the middle of the yard and read. You always loved to look at books, even though you didn’t understand the words yet. So, Grandpa and I carried the chairs to a random spot, and you made me bring my book to sit with you. We thought you would get bored, but you stayed there for over an hour. So I read. And your grandpa took this photo, and now I treasure it. It was a beautiful morning.

My grandparents passed away many years ago, and I can’t ask for the real story. And yet when I study every detail, my heart is full of love and longing. It’s one of my favorite pictures I have of the two of us. And it got me thinking: maybe I’m taking the wrong pictures.

What if I need to start a collection of images of the “unimportant” moments, and include brief backstories to accompany them? I can imagine presenting a fancy box to my daughter as she heads away to college, saying to her, “Here, this is for you. This is who you are. This is what you did. These are the moments I treasure with you.” I only have a couple of years to play catch up, but I’m going to try.

When we play cards this summer, I’ll secretly capture her sunkissed skin at the lake, laughing with her eyes shut and beautiful smile as wide as the joy in her heart. I’ll write down that she beat me, her grandmother, and her dad in a vicious game of Rummy. And that while we were playing, she made us listen to a new favorite song, and that her dad now has it on his playlist. And every time he hears the song, he thinks about that Sunday afternoon on the lake, boats zipping by, the sunshine warm on our faces—and he thinks of her.

I’ll take a photo of her studying for the chemistry test she’s so worried about failing. I’ll make sure to capture the worry lines that form in-between her eyes, and the mountains of papers surrounding her on the bed where she studies. I’ll write down that she never did fail that test, she got a 98—the highest score in the class. I’ll tell her how proud we were that she studied diligently every day for three days, and went to the teacher for extra help. I’ll tell her hard work pays off. I’ll show her this picture as proof.

Life is made up of thousands of ordinary moments we string together to form the ultimate picture of who we are. And after ten, twenty, thirty years, everything we ever thought of as unremarkable– becomes the most remarkable.

We only need to write it down.

“You are nothing but a lazy, narcissistic, avocado-on-toast eating snowflake who has no respect for anyone or anything but yourself.” If you are a Millenial, this is the narrative blasted into your face on a daily basis.

And it’s not OK.

I would bet my left big toe that people born 20 years ahead of Mozart thought he was some crazy kid with a wild streak who played music that was going to ruin society. All the people who still loved listening to the lute were trash-mouthing Motzy by saying he was the definition of what’s wrong with the world.

And most people don’t know that Herman Melville had his wife chain him to his desk so he’d finish his colossal-sized novel, Moby Dick. If there were “pundits” around at the same time he was writing in the 1800s; they’d be saying he was a good-for-nothing procrastinator who thinks too highly of himself writing a book he can’t even finish.

Yep, people have been complaining about other people for a long time.

In the 1950s, the pelvis-shaking singer named Elvis and his rock-n-roll contemporaries were on a mission to soil the innocence of American youth. In the 1960s, if you were a man with hair that was longer than your collar, you were a good-for-nothing hippie. If you didn’t wear a bra in the 1970s, you were a crazy feminist destroying families. Fast forward to the 1980s, if you were successful in business and wore expensive clothes you were a Yuppie—that evil group of professionals who only thought about making money while driving flashy BMWs and running over baby rabbits.

Flinging crappy stereotypes onto other people has been around a long time. But now, it seems meaner, stinkier, and well, more pervasive. And the worst part is that the general public is buying into the gross exaggerations of a group of people born in a particular year.

And it’s not OK.

My nieces and nephews are considered Millenials, and they are some of the funniest, kindest, most hard-working, trustworthy people I know. They are decent young adults who treat everyone with respect and want equality for all their fellow human beings— I wouldn’t call that “soft’ or “snowflakish” they’re just great people. Isn’t that what we want our young citizens to be?

My daughter is almost 16, and my son is 12, and they make up Generation Z. This is a newly-minted title bestowed on their age group — so not enough has been written to smear their good name in the mud…yet. But whispers of narcissism and other traits carried over from The Millennials have already been graffitied onto their generation-labeled moniker, and this Generation Xer mama bear (hey, I’m not watching my MTV!) isn’t going to have any of it.

Let’s stop making unfounded, sweeping statements about a person because of their age. Let’s start to take the time to know the people who live next door to us or work in the store we buy our groceries in, and dig a little deeper than what the Internet says a person is. Besides just being the right thing to do, we might found out we are all a lot more alike than we are different.

And that’s OK.

The hard work is over, and you’re finally a graduate. Congratulations! The best times are behind you, and from here on out life’s as much fun as touring a rest stop bathroom–so utilize these five easy steps to maintain a wretched existence.

5. Get wasted and post photos on social media. Life’s short, so party hard. Get puking drunk at 3 a.m. and post multiple videos so you can replay it over and over with your friends. And don’t be concerned about anyone knowing about it––those spam and finsta accounts are secret––it’s not like anyone can take screen shots. Also, if you’re uneasy about a future employer finding photos that make you look less than hirable, throw that worry out the window. All those corporate folks are just a bunch of old people who can barely work their iPhones, much less find things on the internet about you.

4. Be wary of anyone new and different. Being judgmental is key to not making new friends and getting to know people. It’s important to determine likeability by the clothes people wear, the cars they drive, and levels of education. Be extra cautious around anyone who may come from a different state or country–no one needs the frustration of trying to learn about new cultures and places. Seek out others who act and look exactly like you.

3. The truly special moments in life can only be captured on your iPhone camera. If there isn’t a picture, it doesn’t matter. The things that are worth getting excited about are the gorgeous places that look great in photos. Don’t go anywhere that you aren’t proud to show off on Instagram or Facebook. Try to get as many likes as possible, then you’ll know it’s a success.

2. Do NOT get sucked into the mindset that you need to volunteer and give back to your community. This one is like dodging dog poop in a yard because you’ll constantly be looking around to avoid stepping on it. Leave this mind-numbing task to the people who have nothing better to do with their time. Your talents need to be focused solely on getting yourself ahead in life, not assisting some stranger. Those people who need “help”––kids that can’t read (Hello, where are the parents and teachers?) and homeless people (It’s their fault for being lazy)––make them someone else’s problem.

1. Never listen to your inner voice. Every decision in your life needs to be weighed against what your friends will say. What you want to do isn’t important if your friends may oppose it. Plus, it’s a lot easier letting other people do the thinking.

Now get out there and spend all that graduation money-and don’t worry about writing those stupid thank-you notes!

Almost sixteen years ago, my beautiful, smart, spunky, funny and spirited daughter was born. She arrived at this world three weeks before the attacks of 9/11, and for those 21 days, my life revolved around getting to know the perfect little human being that had already taken a piece of my heart the moment I first heard hers. She was a colicky baby who cried more than she slept, but I was still in a state of maternal bliss.

Then the attacks happened.

That morning, I stumbled downstairs in a fog of sleeplessness to turn on the TODAY Show, something I hadn’t done since having the baby. I sat down with a bowl of cereal to watch Katie, Matt, and Al, and the first plane had already hit the tower. Something serious was happening, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Moments later, the second plane hit the second tower, and I stopped chewing and felt the rotation of the earth pause in my horror; the gravity of the events unfolding on live television began to sink in. I picked up my precious child and held her close to me and wept. I wept for the mothers who had held their children just like I was holding mine, only to have those lives snuffed out by the evil of strangers; I wept for humanity.

To every young person in the world: I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have had to hear words like the war on terror and suicide attack on a daily basis.

I’m sorry that you’ve never known what it’s like to wait at an airport gate with a grandmother and hug her before she walks down the jetway and onto a plane.

I’m sorry that you may be scared of public places where large amounts of people congregate.

I’m sorry that you may not get to experience the Eiffel Tower, the majestic architecture of the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben, or the beaches of the French Riviera without armed soldiers securing the area.

I’m sorry you have to endure lockdown drills where you sit silently in the corner of the classroom with your fellow students––collectively trembling in fear––knowing all the while it’s not real.

I’m sorry that a small piece of your dignity is taken away at the airport security line every time you travel. It’s for the greater good, but it’s still hard to swallow the notion that all of us are potential terror suspects.

While I still believe that the world is filled with many more kind, loving, and decent people than those who do harm, it’s hard not to be shaken and scared when random terrorist attacks occur. Two days ago, 22 people were killed by a suicide bomber in Manchester, England after leaving an Ariana Grande concert that had just ended. When I read the story about a 15-year old girl who died in the attack, and the anguish her mother and family are enduring, I wept. This mother is me. This mother is all of us.