Charles Wallace the Magnificent – A Tribute Part 8
Editor’s note: Bruce Bouchard is former executive director of The Paramount Theatre. John Turchiano, his friend for 52 years, was formerly the editor of Hotel Voice, a weekly newspaper on the New York Hotel Trades Council. They are co-authoring this column to tell short stories on a wide range of topics.
Author’s note: A short recap – in Part 7, Charley met new significant people who loved him: Maureen McKenna Padula (my new love) and the Walkers who became his “step-family” as we began to vacation in Mexico. Upon our return in April of 2023, from our third winter in Mexico, Charley was diminished. He had a faraway look in his eyes and we were reasonably certain that his hearing was starting to wane and his eyesight was fading.
And so, it was, with trepidation, that we approached our fourth trip to Mexico in early 2024. With the full support of the Walkers, we left, delivering a promise on my part that I would return immediately in the event of any catastrophe.
Charley had seemingly stabilized a slender degree, and though not the ripsnorter of his youth, or the track star of his early adulthood, at 100+ dog years, he was able, with difficulty, to get around, and take short walks. His tail continued to wag, and of course, he could not wait for his next meal.
Things were quiet back in Vermont, and seemingly under control. However, upon our return, in early April of this year, we arrived at a different story altogether; his decline had worsened markedly; his mobility diminished, and his cognition impaired. On our shorter and shorter walks, he would stand stock still, sniffing the air for many minutes. His body jerked, as if frightened, looked up at me, vacantly and seemed to say, “Ohhh….who are you? Do I know you? Do you know where I live? I need to go home now.” We were 90 feet from our front door.
Incidents of incontinence multiplied, and as the weeks wore on well into the month of May, he began panting vigorously. We were alarmed to learn that continued panting was a probable sign that he was nearing the end of his life.
As to the state of my mind, the first thing I had to come to terms with was acceptance. It felt like the settling of a dense fog upon my inner moorings. My emotions began to run wild, through a wall of pain, the pain of too much tenderness. I fought that pain with denial…if only!! I had the conviction (resistant to all rational consideration) that he would live alongside me, or at least live a bit longer. That denial had a backstory.
When I was 12 years old my mother, aged 42, had a radical mastectomy and a hysterectomy during a long stint in the Anaheim, California Hospital. She went into the hospital a vibrant and lively Carmen Miranda and came out aged and wrecked — robbed of her beauty and her dignity. Her transformation forever influenced my deep seated fears of serious illness, incapacitation and hospitals. Without any doubt it influenced my denial functions.
Those fears were tuning forks of death and destruction, high-pitched vibrations, dissonant symphonies in my ears. But reality was the tidal wave that blew away my house of denial, for now, we were rapidly moving to the time of reckoning.
Charley’s needs prevailed over my fears and attempts to resist the truth. Charley was going to die, and soon…and his eyes — his eyes, frightened and wary, spoke volumes, “Hey Da – I’m not good, this is bad, really bad, I’m not happy. I hurt and I’m scared. I really need you now.”
I spent lots of time with my arms around him, cheek to jowl. I would pet him, scratch him and love him up deep into the night, sooth his whimpering, whispering in his ears, “Charley is my baby boy, he’s just a big baby boy, my big, big baby boy.”
A time a while back, on a day free of false convictions, I was pondering a final resting place. One Saturday morning at the Farmers Market my friend Greg Cox, owner and lead farmer of Boardman Hill Farms, had a unique offer. The burley, curly-haired leader of the Rutland Farm movement, said, “Why don’t you consider putting him down on my property, I have a farm animal graveyard and Charley would be most welcome, and I am only 4 miles away from your home. I also have a backhoe.”
It was a wonderful offer and I accepted immediately.
My shaman friend, Luis Robles, from Baja Norte, Mexico, had challenged me “You will not burn your dog!” You will put him in a shroud and then put him 6 feet in the earth…let the elements return him to the elements; and plant a tree!”
Seemed like a much more civilized plan.
And then the final slide…on May 23 at 6:30 in the morning, on the floor of the dining room, Charley was hit by a grand mal seizure, a 10+ Richter Scale earthquake inside his body — every square inch jerked and jolted with high-velocity tremors, and worst of all, his mouth opened like the jaws of a crocodile making deep guttural sounds as if he was drowning and trying to swallow simultaneously. It was terrifying.
I stayed close and rammed down tears of fear and panic. I was certain he was going to die, right there and right then. But no, not just yet. He slowly rebounded, the seizure subsided, and he was in a stupor for the remainder of the day.
At dinner time, that evening, while eating in the laundry room, he had a second seizure. We came upon it at its conclusion, Charley was splayed on the floor, amidst food and the contents of his guts. We knew it was time.
The next day, we called Carol at Riverside Vet. She listened carefully and said, “This is entirely your decision to make, and it is very difficult, but I would council you that he will not rebound, and this extreme discomfort will continue.”
“Tomorrow… can we do it tomorrow?”
11:30 a.m. May 25, 2024, the time was set.
We called our key people and invited them to pay a final visit. It was just too painful for the Walkers, and they passed. My son-in-law Sam, our artisan friend Warren, a couple of neighbors, and lastly young Mallory and her mother, all spent a few precious moments. Poor Mallory’s expressionless face was protecting the war inside. She got on her knees, hugged and kissed him. He spent the majority of the day sleeping. I slept next to him for much of the night. An occasional sigh was the only noise of his last sleep.
At 11 the next morning, we put his bed in the car, helped him gently onto it and made our way to Riverside Vet. When we walked into the building, I had a sixth sense that he knew why he was there. I could tell that he was scared, “What’s going to happen, help me…I need you. I really need you now.”
I began to fall apart. We entered a small room in the clinic, and they took him out to insert the IV. When he returned, he had two blue bandages, one on each arm, and he looked so very vulnerable. The young assistant chirped, “We had to do both arms to find a willing vein.”
I suppressed saying, “He’s going to die, and you had to hurt him??!!”
I got on the floor on my stomach, my chin on the floor looking directly into his eyes. Vet Carol came in and hooked up the IV. We were eyeball to eyeball, his jowls in my hands. “Let go baby boy, just let go. I’m here – I’m with you, I love you, baby boy.”
There was a final deep connection with me, perhaps one he had saved for this special occasion. The years of our glorious eye contact winnowed down to this precious moment. A deep sigh escaped him, and his lids closed slowly as the sleep and then the heart-stopping meds were induced. Tears flowed and my guts turned inside out. Gone. My baby boy was gone…forever.
Is, then Isn’t.
We made our way to Boardman Hill Farm, in a stupor, Charley’s remains in the back of the car. Greg Cox anticipated our arrival and invited us in for tea. He said, “Before we take Charley to his resting place…I want to tell you about my experience I have had around the death of animals on my farm. He focused upon the death of a beloved pig, his prized lady who had birthed over 200 piglets.” We saw his pain at the passing of a girl he had loved. He told of a few others. Our shared experience made the short journey to the grave and the business there more bearable. He was so kind and attentive to do that.
We arrived at his freshly dug grave and lowered him, and then his monogrammed bed, for a blanket, into the earth. Greg smiled and said, “You don’t need to stay for this next part, I got this.” I hovered at the edge of the grave, transfixed upon one paw sticking out from under his bed.
“Goodbye my friend, goodbye to the only son I ever had, goodbye to your sweet, gentle nature, loved by so many, goodbye to morning licks on the face, good bye to running in my rear view mirror, and the swim we took on the first day, goodbye to your regal bearing as you sat at our feet, three in the family. Goodbye to your zest for life, Goodbye my baby boy, my baby boy Charley, my big, big baby boy Charley.”
In Thorton Wilder’s masterpiece, “Our Town,” Emily, after dying in childbirth, is allowed back, as a spirit, to visit her family on the day of her 12th birthday. As she watches her family quietly going about their mundane everyday tasks, she turns to the stage manager and asks: “Does anybody live life, every, every minute?” The stage manager, replies, “The saints, and the poets…they do some.” And of course…our Charles Wallace the Magnificent.
