Little Drummer Boy
– the beat goes on.
Marilou Chanrasmi, Pet Haven President, reflects back on the past year and how Pet Haven has changed her life.
Friday, September 15th, 2006 – a day I’ll never forget. Just one day earlier on what would’ve been my father’s 77th birthday, those dreaded words came out of our vets mouth, “she may have cancer – cancer of the spleen.” How powerful memories are. I’m in a time warp, returning to December 20th, 1968 – a Friday afternoon as well, at Barnes Hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. Looking out the hospital window, in the horizon, standing at 630 feet is the Gateway Arch, the tallest national monument in the United States. Constructed from over 900 tons of stainless steel, the “Gateway to the West” is firmly rooted in the west bank of the Mississippi River. I’m four years old. 
I’m thousands of miles away from my hometown of Bangkok, Thailand. We have traveled halfway around the world in search of a cure, a miracle, and landed in St. Louis, Missouri, home of the Gateway to the West. That Friday afternoon, I lose my father. That afternoon, that steel structure engulfed my growing, morphing spirit. That afternoon, it was the gateway to heaven. To my mom, it was the gateway to hell.
Fast forward. It’s Friday afternoon 38 years later - a sunny, crisp fall day in St. Paul, Minnesota. Our 11 year old collie/shepherd mix, Shen, is in surgery at the University of Minnesota’s small animal hospital. Two days ago she was full of life. That morning, I lifted her 47 pound body into the passenger seat of my 2004 burnt orange Honda element, a vehicle I purchased, certainly not for its looks, but for the functionality and ease of transporting our dogs. Her eyes had always pierced my soul. Her eyes, a gateway, into her soul, and into mine. In a daze, I made the drive down Jefferson Avenue to University Avenue, turned right onto Raymond Avenue early Friday morning. “Is this her last car ride with me? Is this it? Is this goodbye?”
The ultrasound confirms a golf-size tumor in her spleen. It’s cancerous, and has spread. The prognosis – grim. “She is dying – we can remove the tumor. Only after we go in can we assess how far it has spread. Any efforts are palliative – you may only get days with her; if you’re lucky, weeks”, the vet says gently. I am not ready to let go. I try to fight back tears. It’s useless. A tsunami of uncontrollable emotions rushes over me. I am drowning, yet expected to make a decision on her “fate”? I realize now, that desperation, that sense of helplessness, that overwhelming anger at the injustice of it all – that’s what my mother must’ve felt that Friday afternoon, December 20th, 1968, when my father, a mere 39 years of age, was ripped from her, just as Shen was being ripped from me.
My decision. I have to try. I give her a kiss and a hug. I whisper to her “I’ll be here, waiting for you. If you choose to move on, I’ll be okay.”
The vet comes out to tell me “she needs another blood transfusion. It’s worse than we expected. The cancer is everywhere. She’s bleeding to death.” I realize, it’s time to let go. Shen wasn’t the one hanging on for dear life – I was the one. My dad wasn’t the one hanging on for dear life – my mother was, and unknowingly, so was I. At four years of age, I sat perplexed in the corner of the hospital room, not understanding the chaos and desperation that filled the air, as doctors and nurses came rushing to my father’s room, as hospital staff wrapped their arms around my mother, as she screamed and cursed the God above for savagely ripping from her, the love of her life.
The hospital PA system is playing Christmas music. It’s five days before Christmas. I’m listening to the “Little Drummer Boy” Christmas carol. I’ve been listening to it for a month, as my mom and I kept vigil in my father’s hospital room. My mom - praying desperately; me, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, playing with my toys. The melody, rhythm and beat of the “Little Drummer boy” are etched in my memory, in my cells, and in the fabric of my being. The drumbeat fades off into the distance, as the spirit of my father is set free – Friday, December 20th, 1968 at 3 PM. Now, Friday, September, 15th, 2006 at 3 PM, I bury my face in Shen’s body, clenching tightly to what is now an empty shell, as her spirit, like my father’s, is set free.
Shen’s spirit lands temporarily in the body of a collie/shepherd mix, Oliver, who is in Pet Haven’s foster care program. Days later, in my pain, I search the petfinder.com cyberspace for Shen. I don’t care that Oliver’s bio says he’s not good with cats. All I see is Shen. I inquire about Oliver. A Pet Have
n volunteer emails me back. An honest, informative email exchange leads me to accept that Oliver would not be a good fit for us, and that our cat would not appreciate being Oliver’s appetizer. By then, I’m hooked. The volunteer suggests another homeless dog – Missy, a black lab/pitbull mix who has been destined to shelter life in rural Iowa. The combination of big, black and pitbull are a recipe for “homeless forever” or “humane euthanasia.”
My journey with Pet Haven began on September 23rd, 2006, the day we picked up Missy. We fostered, only to “fail” within hours. My fellow volunteers tease me for setting the record in “failing”! 
Within hours of Missy arriving, we knew she was already home. The first night she slept on Shen’s round LL Bean bed, on my side of the bed. Like a baby, she slept through the night. The next day, like Shen, she tossed stuffed animals in the air and dissected them, like a skilled surgeon, pulling out the stuffing, setting them aside, and carefully extracting the squeaky heart-shaped plastic. Her favorite spots to lay, were Shen’s favorite spots to lay. Could it be that Shen’s spirit was still alive, finding refuge in the body of a homeless big black dog, destined for euthanasia, or a life behind bars?
I believe Shen, which means “spirit of fire”, is out there. I believe Shen is in each of us. We have all experienced a deep loss at some point in our life. Through the spirit and soul of a four-legged rescued dog, I have found my voice, and I have found the courage to live my truth. And four paws at a time, with the generosity of volunteers and donors, Pet Haven can continue our mission of rescuing and re-homing dogs and cats, spaying and neutering to reduce overpopulation, education around responsible guardianship, and advocacy on behalf of companion animals.
The holiday season is here again. It’s always a time of reflection for me. Little Drummer Boy is playing again. I hear the music; I feel the beat. The seed of Shen is planted in every one of us – there’s truth and passion at our core. This time, it’s not so distant. This time, the beat crescendos. A drumbeat for every dog, every cat we rescue, and for every human being whose soul we touch. We need your support. Please join us. Please consider a tax-deductible year-end donation, so we can keep the beat going. By giving this holiday season, as you help us save the lives of dogs, cats, puppies and kittens – you may discover that your gift, is really a gift to yourself. I know I did.
Listen this holiday season, to the “Little Drummer Boy” – and let the beat go on.
To make a donation online, visit http://www.pethavenmn.org/donate.php or mail a check to:
Pet Haven Inc. of Minnesota
P.O. Box 19105
Minneapolis, MN 55419
With heartfelt gratitude for your support,
Marilou