Wiley & Wilma

On July 15, 2021, Robby and I eased a camper van over the crooked lip of our driveway and drove away from home. Or rather, we drove our new home away from our house. The van named Wilma contained a bed, sink, composting toilet, and refrigerator. There were cabinets, drawers, a little study nook with a desk, solar panels on the roof, stick-on linoleum tiles, and the palpable absence of our five-year-old dog, Wiley. We had to put him down twenty-four hours prior. Our long-awaited sendoff felt hurried, tragic, and incomplete. 

Three and a half years ago, Wiley (formerly Orion) developed a limp. He stopped putting his full weight on his left front paw, often holding it daintily out in front of him, as someone might hold a teacup. Through X-rays, the vet surmised that the cause was some sort of bone injury and prescribed pain pills. One year, a worsening limp, and more X-rays later, it was determined that one of his toes was now warped beyond repair and had to be removed. Cue biopsy, surgery, more scans, more pills. Though the vet, surgeon, and radiologist were now sure this was the work of an autoimmune disease or cancer, no one could decipher the specific cause. Wiley just got worse.

Wiley developed an aggressive streak. This dog, who had never so much as glared at a human being, started lunging and snapping. A few times, he bit people’s thighs. We took him to a trainer who taught us about “fear biting” and gave us tools to help Wiley feel safe and calm. While we did see improvements, the trust had vanished. How long would it take before we could have people over without worry? What would happen if we left the room for a moment? What if he hurt a child? The dangerous behavior had descended over the course of a couple months, and we were bewildered. One thing, however, was clear to the trainer, the vet, and us: the aggression was caused by physical pain.

A couple weeks before we left in the van, we took Wiley in for another X-ray checkup. We sensed he was in more pain than usual; he could now barely make it around the block and didn’t like to play if it required jumping. For two years, we had lessened his activity and given him pain pills. We wanted to check the progress of his bones and ensure he was on the right medication. We were also open to discussing the possibility of amputation.

The vet was shocked by the X-rays. She turned off the light in the exam room to show us the images on a computer. The bones of Wiley’s left paw looked like a conjunction of poorly-built railroads. The vet pointed to the unnatural angles, the fused pieces, and, most terrifyingly, the bones that were missing.

“You see this area?” she said, dragging a long, immaculate fingernail around a black space the size of a nickel. “There used to be a bone here. It’s just gone.”

The computer glow lit up a series of labeled bone models on the counter. I looked at the foot, all the happy plastic pieces that clicked together like good teeth. 

Amputation requires three working legs, and while Wiley’s left leg was an obvious nightmare, his right was more quietly terrifying. It looked like a small creature had taken a round bite out of his elbow, and the X-ray was already showing some frayed bone-edges that were rampant in the left paw. The vet said that our next option would be to take him to specialists and do a bone tap to further narrow down the possible diseases (we were now down to three or four), and, though he would continue to experience discomfort, explore more intense pain management regimens. We agreed to send the X-rays off to radiologists, then went home. The vet would call us when she heard back later that week.

Within a day, we knew what we had to do. This dog couldn’t run, this dog couldn’t play, this dog had only two good legs. In many ways, this dog had been fundamentally changed by long term pain. We could spend the next year(s) and a small fortune chasing down a diagnosis and staving off the inevitable with pain pills, but one truth remained: the most advanced treatment would not bring his bones back. 

So, on a day that felt like hot, mosquito-ridden honey had been poured over the world, we put Wiley down in a patch of grass outside the veterinary office. He was happy to be with us, smiling and licking my thighs, which was where we placed his head for the end. When the vet injected the final, bubblegum-pink serum, he went slack but stayed warm. Robby and I were inconsolable. Orion-Wiley’s tongue jumped out of his mouth and curled upward, frozen in a kiss.

*

The van rumbled across the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge, and I watched Wilmington over my shoulder: bright buildings lined the river like jars of candy. Then they were gone. Charlie, our white shih tzu I found on the street years ago, was curled in my lap. I wondered if he missed Wiley. I wondered if he had any inkling that we weren’t going back to the house, and if he was truly happy in the van, or simply happy with us. 

We bought Wilma in early May. We nearly wiped out our savings, sold our only car, and burned through the insurance settlement from Robby’s car accident two years ago. The 2019 Ram Promaster 2500 had been in our driveway and served as our sole mode of transportation for two months. Though we purchased it with the majority of the conversion already completed by the former owners, we used this time to make small improvements. We installed a swing-up counter extension, a swiveling Lagun table, and hung fairy lights around the perimeter of the living area. We frequently made breakfast inside of it: we’d slide open the door and I’d cook coffee and eggs on a one-burner camp stove while dog walkers did double-takes. 

A few times (embarrassingly few), we slept in it. We piled our dogs and ourselves on to the short queen mattress and opened the in-roof ceiling fan like a skylight. The mattress was comfortable, the muffled city-sounds pleasant. Moving around was tough–if I was at the sink and Robby needed something from the dresser behind me, we basically had to do cartwheels over each other–but we felt we’d get used to it. With the amount of money and hope we’d poured into this vehicle, “we’ll figure it out” seemed like the only good response to annoyances.

Still, I wondered if we’d all, little by little, come to hate this van. I imagine that’s what falling out of love feels like: small quirks morph from charming to grating. The choppy water pressure turns to Chinese water torture. The peeling linoleum tiles become dogeared to-do lists. 

It could happen. This could be the worst thing we’ve ever done. Moving from 966 square feet to 55 square feet will present challenges we haven’t predicted. Stress responses to a shift this drastic–both in space and lifestyle–could strain our marriage. Six months from now, we might sell the van, get an apartment, and pretend like this never happened.

If this adventure starts to go south, I think we’ll have learned something from Wiley. During times when his pain and aggression were in full swing, our love for him didn’t come from a place of carefree joy as it once had. It came from creating the best day we could, one day at a time. We loved him not by playing fetch or tearing through a creek together, but by wedging pain pills into pieces of hot dog, by carrying him the rest of the way on a walk, by calming him down when strangers walked by our porch. If we lose some of the bliss–either from van life or our relationship–I think we can find and show love by executing the little tasks. We can keep our space clean and our words kind.

Of course, I don’t think this is going to be the worst thing we’ve ever done. Though we’ve just started out and fully expect a long and rich series of blunders, Robby and I each seem to have an aptitude for living in a tiny, mobile space. I’m spontaneous, he’s efficient. Van life needs both. 

We’re in the Adirondacks now, parked on a corner between an antique store and a marina. The sky hangs low and smothers the hamlet like a gray blanket, but Wilma feels cozy. We’ve started a collection of postcards and photographs on the wall above the bed, and we’re leaving a space for a picture of Wiley. I like the idea of his face floating among all of the places we’ll see. 

We sent a friend to pick up his ashes for us. We’re going to find a place to scatter them.