Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(28)

    I didn’t know then that my brother’s death was defining me. I didn’t know that I had the ability to say no to being defined by death. Now I was with a person who could help me process what happened and turn the parts of me that acted like a nine-year-old into a self-actualized adult who had come to a better understanding of what it means to dig deep and admit your pain—thereby beginning the process of relinquishing it. I was in a place where my brother dying no longer had to define my existence. It’s part of who I am—perhaps the biggest part—and it may have helped steer me in a certain direction, but it is not all of me.

I define me. No event or person does this. I define me. I decide who I am and how I’m going to behave, and I choose to be better. To look more carefully, to trudge deeper. To think about other people’s pasts and not judge someone for doing or handling something differently than I would. To understand my limitations, my shortcomings—that is my growth edge.





    Be careful of the people you make fun of because you will most likely turn into one of them.





After Tammy died, Chunk had a new spring in his step, as if five years had been added to his life. He was suddenly the picture of vitality. Chunk couldn’t stand Tammy, and I didn’t blame him. Tammy was a cunt to Chunk, and Chunk was too much of an existentialist to be bothered by Tammy’s sophomoric chicanery. He stayed out of her way because he didn’t want to rock the boat. I like to believe that when Tammy came home with me, Chunk thought, Here we go, another one of these dime-store whore rescues. This floozy won’t last a fortnight. I don’t know why I believe Chunk was British, but there’s really no other explanation for his regality. Chunk was a prince.

If Tammy was my family mascot, Chunk was my husband. Everybody loved Chunk. His smooth soft hair, his well-mannered disposition. He didn’t have the body type I’m normally drawn to, but any parent will tell you none of that matters when it’s your own flesh and blood. He gave our family some much-needed dignity. He was described by many as aloof, but that was also part of his charm. He had the disposition of a butler—he was congenial but kept his distance. Without a kerchief around his neck, he was just another well-groomed dog from Bel-Air. With the kerchief, he was cooler than Fonzie. He amassed a large social media presence during his time with us and never once used it for ill. He didn’t troll people online or spread fake news. He was pure goodness. He loved me categorically, but that’s not the only reason I loved him. It was most of the reason—but he also had qualities I didn’t jibe with. When I came home drunk or stoned, he laid some heavy judgment on me. When I had friends over, he’d give me a look that said, Lights out in five. I tolerated it because he never said it out loud. He never diminished the meaning of his judgment with lectures. The stares stayed fresh. It made me feel I had a sort of spiritual guide—albeit a sober one. That is, until I got him his own marijuana pills. That’s when the judger became the user.



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Soon after I got Chunk, Molly and I took him on what we presumed was his first trip to the beach, but once we got there, it was clear he had been to a beach before—possibly even as a lifeguard. He sat in front of the water, listening to the waves crash with his eyes closed, while he let the wind blow through his hair—like Ernest Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway would probably have been blacked out, but for some reason that’s who I always thought of when I watched Chunk on the beach. Molly said he reminded her more of Stevie Wonder at the beach, but Molly can be a contrarian. Whenever Chunk was in this state of tranquility, I wished he could drink and smoke cigarettes, but after many failed attempts, I had to accept that neither vices held any interest for him.

    “Can you believe he loves the beach as much as I do?” I asked Molly.

“Yeah, because he lives in a fucking icebox. He’s probably never felt the sun on his back.”

I like my house cold, and if I’ve been drinking, I like it even colder. I’ve always held the false assumption that things with fur could easily withstand freezing temps. “I’m just kidding—his fur keeps him warm,” Molly said to assuage my fear that I was torturing my own dog. “Poor thing thought he was going to become the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and instead he lives in the Arctic. He’s like a modern-day Shackleton.”



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While on a self-imposed sabbatical between my shows at E! and Netflix, I decided it was time for Chunk to see Europe. My family and I were meeting in Spain for a week, and I believed that after years of North American travel and good plane etiquette, Chunk had earned himself the right to a trip overseas. I have an affinity for Spain because the food is delicious and the Spanish take lots of siestas. That is when I get my best work done—when whole towns are asleep.

    Someone from Chunk’s multipronged medical team had given him a prescription for sleeping pills. I was advised to give him as little water as possible on the day of our “journey,” which seemed like sound advice for a fourteen-hour voyage—a ten-hour flight to Germany, a two-hour layover, and then a two-hour flight to Formentera. The German layover added a nice ancestral touch, since Chunk was half German Shepherd and half Chow. It would be his very own episode of Who Do You Think You Are? When we reached the Spanish island, Chunk would be reminded of my cleaning ladies and feel right at home.