I sometimes suspect that my 15-year-old dog stole one of our two cats’ nine lives. Besides the obvious signs of aging — gray muzzle, cloudy eyes, and limping gait — he still acts like the overly needy, exuberant black lab that almost caused me to wreck the car on the drive home from the shelter the day we adopted him.
Without warning, he leapt into my lap and completely obscured the windshield with his shiny black head whipping around to give me kisses until I frantically explained that really it is OK for us to sit 8 inches apart. All these years later, he’s still not convinced.
When I came home one day a few months ago to find him with his eyes glazed over, his breathing labored and unable to stand, I figured maybe he wasn’t going to live forever after all. He wouldn’t eat, barely drank and he went hours without lifting his head. My husband and son had to carry him in to the vet since he couldn’t walk.
The three of us sat in the cubby-size examination room while our vet, ever so gently, said there was not much that could be done for him. It was time. With everyone in agreement and despite any logical reason to hope, I decided it wasn’t. I knew it was unreasonable, perhaps, even unfair to the dog.
This time, I was the one who couldn’t bear separating.
In the tentative days that followed, after Gus had an IV and some medicine to help with arthritis pain, I kept wondering why I was fighting so hard to eke out even a few more days with this dog. Death is a natural part of life and Gus had lived a good, full life. No one likes to lose someone they love, but we all get that life is finite (even if love isn’t). We all understand that grief, no matter how painful, isn’t something to fear. It’s just a higher plateau of love.
Time feels more precious these days. I watch children become more independent and parents becoming less so. I contemplate where I fit in the middle of it all. How all the identities of life blend and soften with time’s passing, becoming less about roles and more about the evolution of our soul. I see more clearly how if we live long enough, we all get to experience both life’s flourish and its fade. Each brings its own unique set of challenges and merciful consolations, too. All the beautiful ordinary moments that make a life sometimes leave us feeling lonely, tired, overwhelmed, or sad. Through some extraordinary grace, however, they also often lead us to know friendship, rest, peace, and joy. Sometimes all of it on the same day.
It’s a precious gift — this life we’ve been given. We have a responsibility to not squander our time or guard it too jealously. After all, time is only as important as what we fill it with; it’s only a medium — a road to walk each other home. At its best it allows us a chance to make things right; to cherish those we love; to see the beauty in our loss; to laugh; and to help someone who can never repay us.
At its worst, it’s just wasted.
Miraculously, Gus has made a full recovery and now considers gourmet dog dinners the norm. I’m happy to oblige because I realize despite the finite nature of time, of life itself, it isn’t the ending that matters most. It’s right now. Gus has become an enduring reminder to use my time well. For now, he remains no further than 8 inches by my side.
Such a happy ending to this story and yet as I write this I’m mourning the loss of our beloved cat who we had to put down yesterday because she was sick with cancer. It’s such a reminder to me that God’s time isn’t our own, or more plainly put, things often make no sense. We don’t get to pick and choose our miracles. Prayers don’t always get answered the way we would like. And, inevitably grief and love are absurdly and yet gloriously interwined. I grieve deeply because I love deeply. Somehow that love makes losses like these bearable. Time is precious sweet friends. Right now is precious. Make the most of it. ~ Love, Lara
