Unfinished Portraits

There was a woman. 

Her name was Eileen.

Duke by Eileen Potts Dawson

She sent me an unsolicited portrait of my sweet four-legged boy, Duke, shortly after his passing two years ago this month (see: The Kindness of Strangers). 

No request for money. Not even reimbursement for the matting or postage to ship it to me. 

Her only motivation: make the world a better place by sharing her art. 

Eileen’s art consisted of countless pet portraits that managed to capture each subject’s unique trait—their imploring eyes, that crooked smile, whatever it was that made each of them so loveable to their humans. 

Months after hanging Duke’s portrait in our home, our ornery rescue Dachshund, Jack, equal parts decrepit and endearing, passed. Without Duke as his guide dog, our blind, deaf and incontinent little guy had lost his way. And by way I mean marbles.

We gave Jack the best transition to the Great Beyond that we could: a five-egg cheese omelet, a fireside nap despite August temperatures in the 80s, and a home-visit from the Dr. Kevorkian of the pet world, Home to Heaven, who, with great tenderness and compassion, helped him cross the portal into life’s next big adventure.  

A week or so later, another unsolicited portrait by Eileen arrived. Jack—sans cataracts—looking every bit the 12-pound badass that he was.

Jack-Jack by Eileen Potts Dawson

Eileen and I developed a friendship, albeit from a distance. I sent her clients for her art. She sent me edits for my latest novel manuscript that features a dog as its protagonist (and even gave me a much better title, which I’ve since adopted). We both sent each other comedic election memes that kept us laughing instead of crying over the political climate of our country. And inspiring dog rescue videos when the political memes weren't enough.

Not All Projects Come to Completion

In December, when the Great Dane belonging to family friends passed away, I sent Eileen a check and a photo and asked her to work her magic. Because Eileen had already gifted me two portraits, I insisted she accept payment for this one. 

A month later, when the check still hadn’t been cashed, I emailed her, playfully chiding her for being so stubborn about accepting payment. The response I got stunned me.

"The truth is I'm not doing so well. Rose will be here on the 12th and I'm hoping she will get me going so I can do one more portrait."

Eileen had already shared her recent ALS diagnosis with me and I knew she’d left her 9-to-5 with the Madison public school system to focus on health. But it never occurred to me how swiftly ALS could fuck a person up. I insisted she forget about the portrait for my friends, but she said it brought her joy to do her art and so she was hoping she could complete this one for me.

A couple weeks later, Eileen’s sister, Rose, with whom I’d also become online friends, flew to Wisconsin to help her. She found Eileen so weak she had to be carried from her bed to her couch and back to her bed each day. She could no longer speak at all. With Rose's encouragement, Eileen managed to eat one piece of bacon and a bit of baby food—the most she’d eaten in days. 

Twenty-four hours later, Valentine’s Day, Eileen was gone.

It didn’t take long before people began posting their pets’ portraits, compliments of Eileen, on her Facebook page, a makeshift memorial to a talented artist and a generous soul.

It’s likely that Eileen donated and gifted more portraits than she sold because her heart was far stronger than her capitalistic instincts. If she was touched by the story of a cat or dog—usually a rescue animal—she poured that emotion into her art. And then sent that art to the humans associated with each portrait subject, regardless of whether or not she knew them.

I believe this was Eileen’s way of confirming that these pets had touched more lives than their humans knew.

And by doing what she did best—sharing her talent and compassion with the world—Eileen herself touched more lives than she knew.

You will be missed, friend. Woof!

Eileen Potts Dawson
1947 - 2017

Loving the Unlovable

“You have managed to fall in love with the unlovable,” my friend Roxy said to me several months back.  Fortunately, she wasn’t referring to my husband, Jeff. 

She was referring to Jack, our bow-legged, halitosis-infested, benign-tumor-covered, foggy-eyed, mostly deaf, nasty-to-strangers (and sometimes us) rescue Dachshund who joined the family two and a half years ago. We already had two lovely standard poodles at the time, so why would we add another dog to the pack, let alone one with a built-in Napoleonic complex?

Wine. Too much wine.  All Jeff’s fault.

We were lounging in France after a leisurely midday meal in 2005 when Clare popped the question.  “Dad? Can we get a Dachshund?” Lying in a recliner across the room, I waited to hear my husband’s logical explanation as to why another dog would be impractical.  Instead, I heard, “Sure, honey. Why not?”

Enter Jack. 

Jack, Disgusting in So Many Ways

We’d figured that adopting a puppy would put our carpet over its canine urine limit, so we sought out an older, calmer dog that was already housebroken.  Instead, we got the Danny DeVito of Dachshunds with broken bladder control. 

Like a Ziploc bag of urine that’s not fully sealed, Jack scooches across the carpet drizzling a little pee here and a little pee there.  His voice—channeled by all of his humans—is harsh and raspy, like that of a pack-a-day smoker and quart-a-night whiskey drinker.  His mouse-eating average is impressive: one every eight months (and those are only the ones we’ve personally witnessed). Jack is disgusting in so many ways, not the least of which, his propensity to mount our 60-pound poodle whenever Duke is having one of his seizures.  I know, right?

And yet, we have fallen in love with the unlovable. 

This past Saturday, we noticed our little Jack was unusually lethargic.  He didn’t try to steal Duke’s food at breakfast, barely ate his own. When we held him, he felt hot, feverish in fact. We’d suspected that Jack wasn’t long for this world within weeks of adopting him as his medications - and our vet bills - increased, and we’d often joked that getting Jack was not so much a rescue program as it was an extended hospice.

But having lost one of our poodles last month to food poisoning (she'd raided the countertop and ingested a small amount of the sweetener xylitol), we were not prepared to lose another of our pack so soon after.  Instead of taking the “wait and see” approach, we loaded Jack in the car and drove to the emergency vet clinic where we ran up a $400 tab only to learn that Jack’s blood panel reflected a remarkably healthy little guy.

Now feeling the pinch on our wallets, we declined the suggested x-rays and drove Jack back home.  We cancelled our evening plans and instead opted for a DVD and onion dip, and Jack curled up on my daughter’s lap the whole night.  At bedtime, Jeff slept with Jack in the guest room, and at 1 a.m. when Jack woke him with his whining, Jeff returned to the emergency clinic for those x-rays we’d cheaped out on earlier.

While waiting in the examination room for the test results, Jeff noticed Jack moving about the floor in obvious discomfort. Jack then squatted, farted, and shot out what Jeff would later describe as “the offending plug” followed by a small amount of goo.  The vet tech returned to show Jeff a set of “normal” x-ray images before giving him another $200 tab. 

By the next morning, Jack’s fever was gone and he was back to being his usual obnoxious self.  The diagnosis?  A bellyache.  A 24-hour, six-hundred-dollar bellyache.

What can I say? We're head over heels in love this little unlovable guy. 

Jack Larsen

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Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, free.  Click here and go to the link below the "Buy the Book" button.  Zuzu's Petals is also available on Kindle and Nook.  Hardcover copies are available at amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy reading!