TulsaPets Magazine January 2024

12 TulsaPets • January / February 2024 Frank Joins the Family Frank arrived, excited and headfirst into our family. We couldn’t have been happier to have him. We felt like we had won a million dollars, watch- ing him sniff and prance around our living room that first day in May 2012. Frank’s smile was as wide as a whale’s, and happiness ra- diated from his big, beautiful face. Frank was a meaty man. A few years ago, while I was walking him around Guth- rie Green, a man in a truck stopped, rolled his window down, and hollered, “Is that a French Bulldog?” I yelled, “Yeah!” “That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen!” I laughed, “He weighs 38 pounds!” The man in the truck was mighty impressed. Frank was all wide-barreled chest and numerous necks. His face was at once both a dapper gentlefellow and silly varmint. Part Victorian lady, part bat. He was definitely a meatloaf with a set of short legs and fat paws. Over the past 11 years, Frank was also a patient muse by my side as I wrote stories for Urban Tulsa, then This Land Press, TulsaPeople Magazine, Oklahoma Magazine, The Tulsa Voice, Intermission, and TulsaPets. As I moved into working in restaurants full time, he handled more alone time without worry. Throughout his life, there was usually someone around the house for Frank to lie on or to con into taking him for long walks. Frank met the love of his life, Emmie Lou McDonald, soon after joining our family in 2012. Emmie is a Frenchie now 14 years old, owned by one of my dearest friends, Annie McDonald. Frank and Emmie spent many nights together in the past decade, flopping around the floor and fighting over toys before ending up in a pile of snores at our feet. We sipped glasses of red wine and cooked dinner in Annie’s kitchen, discussing all the drama of our thirties as our happy little dogs played on the floor nearby. Although Emmie and Frank sometimes argued, they never went to bed angry and instead would settle for peaceful conap- ping on separate ends of a couch. They were ever in cahoots together, looking out the front picture window shoulder to thick shoulder, watching the birds and squirrels on Annie’s green lawn. We made sure they got to see each other as often as we could until the end. Everything Is Fun Frank was play incarnate. If there’s any- thing to understand about this silly dog, it’s his sense of play. Everything was fun with him. He was the first dog I ever had who played fetch. We dubbed him a “fit- ness pig” because even though he was stout, Frank was also muscular and loved to walk endlessly. He would trot himself sore, legs wobbly after particularly long adventures. He never tired, always pulling on the leash, begging you forward every step of the way. He loved exploring along Riverside and the sidewalks of Florence Park, sniffing through the Arts District downtown, pulling me along for just one more street around Will Rogers High School. The highlight of his life was seeing his green-and-brown leash come out from its spot near the front door. He also loved parties or anywhere he could meet new humans. He was an extrovert on four legs. He stayed lively and play- ful until the last six months of his life. Even then, there were glimmers of playfulness each day. The Final Day Passes After a major medical emer- gency and the diagnosis of Frank’s brain tumor, I talked to a few veterinarians and watched Frank closely. He was our patient, and the house was his sickbed. His dementia advanced, and his pain was constant. We spent many sleepless nights trying to ease his restless pain as he walked the floors and circled the bed. As a family, we decided to give him a play-full final day — a loving one surrounded by family. That Sunday, we woke slowly. Frank spent the mild fall afternoon doing his favorite things. We walked with him up and down our sidewalk, leaves falling all around him. We laid him down in the grass while the sun brightened up his white face. He ate deli turkey, chunks of gouda, and SunChips from our hands. We all hugged him, petted his rabbitlike ears, kissed the top of his head, rubbed his paws. We smelled him and cried into his fur and took photos together. He had the best day. Near dusk, Frank left this world, snor- ing and in heavenly peace. We walked out of the emergency veterinarian clinic, without him for the first time, to a striking sunset. Blackberry fuchsia, blood orange, and simmering yellow met our tears; I said, “That’s him!” Our house feels empty now. When I come home from work, I continue to expect him at the front door. His ashes are in a sleek wooden box on the mantle. The holidays didn’t feel the same this year without him around. This is the first piece I’ve written in more than a decade without his reassuring snore and gentle warmth nearby. He was an athlete at napping. He loved to play, but napping for him was a profession. Nap in peace, buddy. We love and miss you so much. In September 2023, Frank cuddles with his human mother, Jennie Lloyd.