Blended with Love

The cold water running over the strawberries reminds me of the chilly, crystal, easy waters of the San Marcos. Images of the rice plant waltzing in the glassy water play on a loop in my mind as the tap’s clear stream cascades across the berries’ leaves. I rinse the apples and carrots, holding them as delicately as petals, willing them to give you the nutrients you need, a miracle. Willing them to fill you up, and for the love of all that is holy, be something you’ll like to eat. That old adage echoes in my head on repeat.

“You know Boosie, beggars can’t be choosers. And you sir, cannot be choosey. Your days of food boycotts and being a Snooty Susie and Petty Patty are over. You can’t skip meals. We have to stick to a kidney friendly diet. We have more adventures to take, books to read, pictures to get, and Sasquatch hunts to do, so you need to stay healthy. I need you to stick around for another…forever years. If Finley could make it to 20, you should make at least 30 for me,” I say winking at him.

Your Judgey Janet stink eye bores into me as I say the boycott jab, but as soon as I mention our adventures, you pop up, the “mo-go” stance activated. Your reserved dignity and fearless pride make your starlit eyes even brighter as you sit, head held high, chest puffed out at the mention of Sasquatch. Your serious composure etches across your face like a yearbook football pose.

I set you on the counter as I start peeling the apple. Your eyes glitter with each turn of the green sphere. Your body taut, gaze lasered on my hands, your breathing tenses. You’re as invested as me. Will this be the apple we peel all in one spiral? Every rotation has your skin buzzing with excitement, mirroring mine. This is our game. What nerds we are. This is the highlight of our night. A few more turns to go. Almost there. One. More…done!

“We did it Boogs!” I cheer holding up a perfect spiraled peel. You stand up, glee consuming your body and that’s when it starts—the cyclone tail.

Your little pompom pelting the air with more enthusiasm than a cheerleader’s for a playoff-winning touchdown. Yes, what nerds we are. We’re celebrating the “master peel.”

We have to celebrate these little victories to offset the heaviness bearing down on both our minds and hearts. Your kidney failure diagnosis was a gut punch we never expected. Learning it’s from an unknown cause and not a simple age-related diagnosis, robbed the breath from my chest. How can I fight something I don’t know where it’s from? How can I help you, save you, if I don’t know what I’m fighting and saving you from? My mind starts to spiral, my pulse hopscotches as my anxiety elevates. I mentally shake myself. You lean into my arm, sensing my panic rising with hurricane force. Your eyes hold mine. There’s a battle ahead of us, but life wouldn’t be ours without it—without our bodies waging war against us and us having to rise to the challenge. A warrior never quits. More than a mantra, it’s been our mission statement for over a decade. My very essence syncs in rhythm with your steady presence. How this perfect, little fluff manages to perform his duties with such precision even when he feels so crummy is nothing short of a miracle. You’re the greatest blessing I’ve ever been granted. I look into your velvety-chocolate eyes and can’t put my gratefulness into words, so I kiss the little dip in your forehead.

“Thanks Boo. I’m good. Just worried. I’m cooking a special diet, blindly, for the King after all,” I smile. “But this is a good sign, maybe this diet is the lucky winner,” I say holding up the spiral. “Shall we continue, your Majesty?”

A sly grin graces your face. I set aside the peel with a flourish. I slice the apple and arrange them in the rice cooker tray. The vulture Stooges haunt the ground below hoping a slice escapes the tray.

As I pour the rice into the cooker, my mind drifts over weeks of studying, researching. We’re tackling this blindly. Your vets haven’t been able to guide us in a kidney-friendly diet. They regurgitate the same spiel about prescription diets, ignoring the fact you’re allergic to the ingredients. When asked questions about the benefits of certain ingredients, I’m met with blank stares and sputtering. How can the disease that causes the second highest mortality rate in pets be so foreign to them? How are they unable to advice on proper nutrition for a disease fueled by nutrition? How can they spout a food recommendation yet know nothing about the “prescription” diets they peddle? My frustration leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My skin crawls with aggravation and disgust. I’m supposed to monitor your diet with zero guidance on what I’m monitoring.

That just didn’t work for me. Your expression each time we’re told someone couldn’t help us, let me know it didn’t’ work for you either. The day they told us your best case was six months, I felt your disdain and resolve as deep as my own. You looked over your shoulder at me, your eyes reflecting my thoughts. Challenge accepted. We’d blow that expectancy out of the water like a geyser.

We spent the first night after your diagnosis clinging to one another. You drying my tears with soft nuzzles. That was all I needed. Day two I began scouring resources, hunting for nutritionists and specialists, researching articles, journals, studies, books. We visited countless libraries, stuffed the car with books, sat in aisles until closing, me reading while you snuggled me. The elation I felt in July when the Keeter Librarian told us we could check out fifty items through October when the new building opened and we discovered they had a huge selection of what we needed. We camped in that aisle for hours. After we took our selfies amongst the stacks for the final day in that building, I rolled two carts of books to the car, juggling you, your bag, my notebooks, and keys. Our determination as fierce as the blistering heat.

You nudge my hand, eyes sparkling as if you were lost in the same memory, a shared fortitude passing between us.

As I peel and slice the carrots, the Stooges’ longing grows as sharp as my knife. Their eagerness for a bite thick enough to slice. They’re the comic relief to our burden. You look down at the desperate clowns. My eyes twitch with the familiar tickle of your coming eye roll while I struggle to stifle my premature laugh. Knowing this scene would playout, I’d sliced an extra carrot to appease the peasants. Esi does her cha-cha as I turn around, carrots in hand. Maggie-spring-legs bounces on her invisible pogo stick while poor Brosie lopes around happy and confused. I shower them with carrot bits watching the chaos and bliss ensue. Looking at you, I see the grin crease your muzzle. Peasants or not, you enjoy their happiness.

Scooping up carrot discs, I arrange them around the cooker tray. The munch-monsters greedily eye the tray, willing it to explode in a sneeze of carrots.

With these arranged in the tray, I place the cod fillets in the center. I lift the tray to check the rice is level, pour the water in, and set the timer.

“T-45 Boogs.”

I pretend to put the strawberries away with the other ingredients just to watch the dismay crinkle your little mug. You eyeball me with such disdain; I can’t keep up the charade. I dissolve into giggles.

“Just kidding Boosie! Calm down. I know, I know. Strawberries are a must. The DB gets what the DB wants.”

I dice the berries and toss them into the blender cup. I add the dash of dill and pinch of parsley. I drop two cubes of frozen goat milk in. I tighten the lid and place the cup in the fridge. I toss the scraps into the trash and load the dish detritus into the dishwasher while the Stooges remain focused on the rice cooker.

“We have half an hour. Shall we snuggle Boogs?”

Your twister tail activates and you wait impatiently for me to pick you up. I wrap my arms around you and whisk you to our chair. The Stooges remain on cooker guard. I can almost see the laser beams from their eyes, trying to hex the pot into a treat volcano.

We snuggle into our blanket and restart our book, you reclining like a human against me. I shred small pieces of roll for you. Learning you could have small amounts of bread was like waking up on Christmas morning for you. You are definitely my child. Bread is life.

I fail to deliver bread bites quick enough. You start throwing a hissy fit. Little whines turn into full bleats. You air stamp your feet. You annoyance still not enough to make you get up for a bite.

“Oh my goodness. Impatient Irma. You’re ridiculous. Here, you cow. Forgive me for my sluggishness your Majesty.”

You greedily chomp the roll bit, getting more crumbles on your chest than in your mouth. Smacking your lips, you’re bubbly-giddy. I start de-crumbing your hair. Your smacking stops, replaced with another air stamp pitiful whine. You are absolutely ridiculous, but sunshine fills my body watching your attitude. These moments are priceless. They are what make the sun rise every morning. They are why one of your tag lines is “My sunshine is blue.” They are my favorite. I kiss the dip of your forehead, then your nose.

The timer chirps on the rice cooker. I pause our book and start to get up. Your scoff lets me know you intend to escort me to the kitchen.

I sit you back on your bed on the counter. You survey the rice cooker with mixed skepticism and anticipation. I grab the blender cup from the fridge.

“Here we go Boogs! Fingers crossed this is edible gold.”

I open the cooker and spoon out the goodies. The Stooges disappointment palpable. They’re volcano dreams squashed. Measuring each ingredient on the scale per my calorie notes, I tip them into the cup. I sprinkle the Rawbble bits in the cup. You lick your lips. Your not-so-subtle hint.

“Here, piglet. Two bites.”

I add the water and screw on the lid. I lightly puree the cup. I present you with a spoonful of the mixture and you snort. Another no-so-subtle hint. You are anti-chunk. The King demands smooth puree. I roll my eyes.

“Yes, your Highness. Forgive me.”

After blending the mixture smooth, I measure your serving. We exchange a look. Game time. Time to roll the dice.

Your eyes convey willingness and appreciation. You place a paw on my wrist, letting me know it has to be good because I made it for you. I bump our noses and plant a kiss on your cheek. Our mutual hope fills the room.

“Here’s hoping this is a winner for your royal tastebuds. It's blended with love."

I set you down, placing the bowl in front of you. Pulling the scrunchie from my hair, I gather up your long, luxurious ears and place them hostage in the elastic.

A laugh bursts from my lips. “You look like a Cyndi Lauper backup singer!”

You give me the side eye, but then cock your head in a glamor pose, showing off your adorable, distinctive Boosie grin.

We both inhale. The moment of truth.

You lean down, sniffing the bowl, judging the blended aroma.

Pass number one.

You eyeball the texture.

Pass number two.

You dig in without hesitation. Go big or go home is your motto.

The pompom twitches.

Your pig-snuffles are a beautiful harmony. Slurping snorts like a Mozart melody.

You don’t lift your head and take a breath until you’re finished. You inhale deeply, exhaling with such gusto you’d think you just finished a marathon. I squat down. We look at the bowl together. It is licked spotless. A happy bowl. You take a victory lap around the kitchen. Coming back to the bowl, you inspect it to be sure no morsel was left behind.

SUCCESS!

The realization hits us both like a tidal wave. Your tail launches into madness. Your pompom spirited like a fight song dance. You hold your head high as if to say “Momma, that was a triumph. You’re a Queen, Scholar, and Chef. And I, made that bowl extra happy.

You leap into my arms, your excessive licker drowning me in grateful kisses. I rock back into a less-than-graceful plop, legs wide as I lay back on the tile and wrap my arms around you. I let you cover me with ricey-carrot smelling kisses. Faint notes of cod and parsley permeate my nose. I’m laughing hard now trying to block your tongue from going up my nose or in my mouth. Your whole butt is wiggling now, it’s cadence a bass beat for my heart to dance to.

You pause your lick-fest, eyes locked on mine. You let out manly, grizzly, strawberry flavored burp right in my face.

“Ugh Boogs! Did you get any on you? Because you just gas-chambered me!” I squeal through fits of giggles. You smirk, eyes alight with playfulness. I melt into a fit of laughter and snorts.

The Stooges, who’ve been letting us have our celebration, hear my snort-chuckles. Reading the room correctly for once, they pile on top of me, joining our celebration. After Maggie and Brosie inspected your bowl of course. We relish in this win. There’s no guarantee how long you will like this mixture, and we still have to wait for weekly labs to ensure they’re stable on it, but, for tonight, we celebrate this success in pure ecstasy and thankful bliss.

Eventually, I get everyone settled and feed the Stooges. You and I retreat to our chair while they trough-guzzle. We exchange a grateful look. You rest your head against my chest, velvety-chocolate eyes filled with love and gratitude. They reflect the hope in my heart. They mirror the determination in my own. We got this. I place a check emoji next to the recipe in my phone notes, mark the start date, and jot down a quick recap note. I pull out my notebook, start the ingredients and recipe.

I squeeze you tighter, kiss my favorite spot on your forehead and whisper, “I love you Boosie. We got this. I’ll cook every day, study every day. We can do this. They can shove their six months.”

You lick my cheek and nuzzle my nose. The fire in your eyes confirms you share my resolve. You have no intention of letting six months be your barrier. I see the wheels turning in your brilliant, beautiful brain. You’re making plans long past that.

We hold each other for a while. Quietly reflecting on the battle ahead and saying thankful prayers.

Our peaceful moment is disrupted by the circling of Brosie’s bowl in the stand. The magic broken as noisy feet click across the tile. I hear Maggie rooting in your bowl. Hear Esi’s paws hit the cabinet doublechecking the chance of a treat volcano is fully exhausted. Their tiny paws clamber to the gate. Brosie grunt-whines and pushed the gate with a CLACK. Esi mournfully whimpers while Maggie activates her invisible pogo stick and huffs. They want to join the snuggle island.

You sigh as if saying “Fine. I guess the peasants can join us, as long as they don’t interrupt our book. We’re at the good part. But only I get to sit in your lap.”

I walk over to open the gate. The minions tumble through and run to the chair.

We settle in. You lay your head on my shoulder, and I push play on our book as I wrap the blanket around us, resting my cheek against yours.

We exhale together. Today was a success. We’re going to rock this.

Together.

Dedicated In Memory Of

The bravest King I ever knew. The Perfect King.

Who lived virtuously, courageously, and loved truly unconditionally.

Whose servant’s heart destined him for medical service.

My soulmate.

He was love in its purest form.

An unmatched Sasquatch hunter.

My sunshine is blue.

For love of Poodle

Love is being owned by a Poodle,

Especially one named Ditto.

His story is the greatest ever told.

Based on my service dog, Sir Didymus Ditto Mehaffey, AKA Boosie, Boogs, and a never-ending list of nicknames, whom Heaven reclaimed April 28, 2026 following a battle with CKD and a brainstem tumor after more than fourteen years of dedication. A five-pound blue Toy Poodle, he was small in stature, but possessed a heart, soul, devotion, attitude, courage and ego that were larger than life, larger than words.

This story is based on our battle with his kidney disease and the many, many months we spent researching, creating, and testing recipes that were kidney friendly on our own. This was one of his favorite recipes. He blew the six-month life expectancy out of the water. He was rocking the disease, his kidney levels were back to normal, he was just shy of making it a year from his diagnosis when his brain tumor picked a fight with a harder punch. Never giving up, fighting to the end, I know he didn’t lose the war. He just changed the battlefield.

Until we meet on the trail again, Boosie, keep ‘Squatchin’.

I love you Ditto Bear.