Letting Go of Chelsea: The Turning Point in My Relationship with Mom

When I said goodbye to the love of my life, my twelve-pound Shih Tzu soulmate Chelsea, Mom was by my side as the camera rolled. It was 2010, and I was in the midst of making a personal documentary. Mom turned to the lens and declared, “Gayle is going to miss Chelsea more than me.”

I shook my head, hobbling next to her with my arm around her shoulder. My right foot was out of commission after bunion surgery, so I limped alongside her, silently absorbing her words.

Mom wasn’t wrong. Chelsea and I had been inseparable for fourteen years, ever since I rescued her from my brother’s home. He had too many animals, a short temper, and a new wife and baby competing for his attention. Chelsea, just a puppy then, was caught in the chaos. Saving her became my mission.

She filled a maternal void I hadn’t even realized was there. Chelsea didn’t just need me; she nurtured me, teaching me how to love in ways I’d never experienced before. She was my constant companion, tucked discreetly into a Sherpa bag, accompanying me to blind dates, film shoots for TV shows I was directing including America’s Most Wanted, and countless trips by train, plane, and automobile. A frequent flyer, Chelsea even earned her own Delta Airlines wings, which I proudly pinned to her little jacket.

At the time, my relationship with Mom was strained, to put it kindly. We tolerated each other—or, more accurately, I barely tolerated her. While I played the role of dutiful sidekick, her magnetic personality demanded constant attention, often at my expense. The bigger the audience, the better her material.

My hair was a favorite punchline. “Her hair was out to here and down to there!” she’d exclaim, using her hands to mime its volume and length. And if it wasn’t my hair, it was my nose. “How will you ever find a husband with that nose?” she’d say loudly, in public, urging me to get a nose job.

I never did get married. Maybe she had a point.

But it didn’t stop there. My weight, my “big ass,” my neck, my clothing, my lack of makeup—everything was fair game. According to Mom, I was a mess, destined for loneliness unless I cleaned up my act. My brother chimed in, even teaching his kids to call me “Shamu,” referencing the famous orca. At 5’4” and 129 pounds, I wasn’t exactly slim, but I hardly deserved the ridicule.

Chelsea was my refuge. She became more than just a dog; she became my identity. Together, we made A Dog’s Life: A Dogamentary, a film that premiered on HBO and catapulted her to stardom. She was a healer, once pulling someone out of a coma. We were featured in The New York Times, on NBC’s Today Show, and in countless other outlets.

But as Chelsea’s health was quite suddenly in a crisis as she gasped for breath the decision became inevitable. Nearly 16, her body was failing her. I couldn’t bear to see her in pain. Surgery was out of the question. I wasn’t going to let them open her up to see what they found. Letting her go was the hardest, yet kindest, choice I could make.

The day I put her to sleep, I lost a part of myself. Chelsea had been my anchor, my source of unconditional love, and now, she was gone.

And there I was, alone with Mom.

Mom and I were now both alone.

No Chelsea to lean on. No Chelsea to love me. Just the two of us.

Life with love with Chelsea

Dad had passed a few years earlier. Now, we were both alone. As much as I dreaded it, I knew that day marked a turning point. If we were going to survive, I had to transform my relationship with my mother. We needed each other, whether we liked it or not.

This essay is a glimpse into the journey that inspired my upcoming memoir, Bullied to Besties: A Daughter’s Journey to Forgiveness, which will be released on Mother’s Day 2025.