Obituaries

In Loving Memory of Chelsey Chelsey was born in Europe into a pedigree that seemed to have already decided what her life would be. Her father was the legendary VA1 Ballack von der Brucknerallee, IPO3, twice crowned VA1 at the German BSZS, in 2015 and 2016. She came from the kind of breeding that carries enormous expectations — the kind of puppy born with every reason to become part of a serious breeding program. And that is how Chelsey’s life began. She produced a beautiful litter in Europe, with puppies going on to breeding programs in several countries. One of her sons, Clark, became a successful show dog in Greece. Chelsey herself was beautiful, well bred, proven, and valuable. Then circumstances changed. After a breeding that resulted in only one puppy, Chelsey was offered for sale. Through a strange combination of circumstances — the sort that at the time feels unfortunate to someone else and years later feels like extraordinary luck to you — we had the opportunity to bring her to America. She arrived to us pregnant with that one little puppy. We delivered her baby by C-section, and that puppy became Zlata, who grew up alongside our children. And Chelsey stayed. At first, she stayed as part of our breeding program. She turned out to be an exceptional mother — instinctive, gentle, attentive and loving with her puppies. Through her, we eventually kept dogs who became part of the generations that followed in our program, including Cabernet and Bernie. Many more of her descendants became beloved family dogs across the United States, from New York to California. Her pedigree will continue through them. But somewhere along the way, all of that became the least important thing about Chelsey. Because Chelsey became my dog. She was extraordinarily intelligent. You could talk to her and have the unmistakable feeling that she wasn’t merely hearing the sound of your voice — she was listening. She understood far more than we probably ever knew. She was also enormously proud. Chelsey was not a dog who threw herself at you begging for affection. She carried herself with dignity around people and dogs alike. Affection, at least in her younger years, seemed almost beneath her. She had particularly strong opinions about little dogs. She was never cruel to them. She simply appeared to find them deeply disappointing. The expression on her face seemed to say, You call yourselves dogs? You look like rabbits. That quiet look of disapproval never failed to make us laugh. And yet, for all her pride, Chelsey had a remarkably gentle side. Our cat, Taya, absolutely adored her. Of all the dogs in the house, Chelsey was Taya’s favorite. They would sleep together, and Taya would often come over and carefully crawl between Chelsey’s front legs, settling there as if that was exactly where she belonged. Chelsey simply let her. There was something incredibly sweet about seeing this large, dignified German Shepherd quietly curled up with a cat tucked against her chest. It was one of those small, ordinary moments that said more about Chelsey’s nature than any title ever could. Her pride also made the moment when she finally chose me unforgettable. In 2018, my father became ill, and I went to Russia to spend time with him. I was gone for almost two months. When I finally came home, I went upstairs to shower. Chelsey knew perfectly well that dogs were not allowed upstairs. Of all our dogs, she was one of the most respectful of that rule. But that day, she broke it. She came upstairs, walked into our bedroom and then into the bathroom, sat beside the shower and began to cry. Not bark. Cry. She whimpered and moaned until I opened the shower curtain and looked at her. She was simply overwhelmed that I was home. It had taken years for this proud dog to allow herself to show me how much I meant to her. That was the moment I knew. Chelsey had chosen me. And from then on, she was my dog for life. We drove all over Wisconsin together. Riding in the car was one of her greatest pleasures. She sat proudly in the front passenger seat beside me, perfectly content to accompany me wherever I was going. She even figured out the seat belt. The car would beep because she was sitting in the passenger seat, so she learned what caused the annoying sound. She would pull at the seat belt as if helping me buckle her in. Once she was secured and the beeping stopped, all was right with the world again. We went through drive-through banks and coffee shops together. We walked in parks and attended parades. She came with me to farmers markets. She accompanied me on errands that had absolutely nothing interesting for a German Shepherd to do. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there because of where we were going. She was there because we were going together. Years passed. The black around her face slowly turned gray. Her body became slower even when her mind and spirit did not. I watched running become harder for her. I watched age bring things that neither of us could negotiate with. We removed tumors more than once, and each recovery became a little more difficult. But show Chelsey a ball and suddenly age became negotiable. Even at twelve years old, she would forget that she was an old lady and launch herself after it alongside dogs half her age. And if someone suggested a walk? Chelsey was still the first one ready to go. She lived a long life with us. A life that began in Europe with pedigrees, show ratings, breeding expectations and plans made by people before she could possibly have had any say in them. But I like to think that the most important part of Chelsey’s story came afterward. She got to grow old. She got children to watch over. She got puppies to raise and then years when no puppies were required of her at all. She got car rides. Parks. Farmers markets. Front seats. Balls. Walks. A cat who believed the safest place in the world was between her front legs. A home. And she got a person who belonged to her. At the end, when her body could no longer carry that proud spirit comfortably, the last thing I could give her was the promise that she would not have to suffer for me. Her final moments were peaceful. With medication taking away her pain, I could see her relax. She looked happy that I was there. She rested her head in my hands, the same proud Chelsey who had once needed years before she would allow herself to show how deeply she loved me. And then she fell asleep. Quietly. With me. I am grateful to the veterinary team and to Dr. Nick for giving her such a gentle and painless goodbye. Chelsey came into this world as a dog with an extraordinary pedigree. She produced beautiful puppies, left generations behind her, and contributed more to our breeding program than we could ever measure. But none of those accomplishments explains why losing her hurts. To the world, she may have been a daughter of champions. To us, she was Chelsey. Our companion. Our old lady. Taya’s favorite dog. My passenger. My friend. I hope that the life we gave her was worthy of the trust she eventually placed in us. And most of all, I am grateful for one simple thing: She loved us more than we deserved. Thank you, Chelsey. For every puppy. Every mile. Every walk. Every gray hair. Every look of judgment. Every quiet nap with Taya curled against you. Every time you chose to come with me. And for that one day upstairs by the shower, when you finally decided it was okay to let me know just how much you loved me. I knew. I will always know. Rest well, beautiful girl.