I had forgotten what this felt like, the weight of my tears, the heaviness of grief. My eyes were slits, dry and irritated as if I had used sandpaper instead of Kleenex, while watching the gentle eyes of my very old dog, waiting for him to die.
I scheduled his euthanasia for two days from that moment. Just one more weekend, I thought. Just one more. One more hug, one more glance of mutual unadulterated adoration, one more piece of bacon, one more day, and maybe we can reverse aging and he'll be able to walk again, perhaps chase the ball or wag his tail one last time.
One more day and, perhaps, a miracle. It was as if I decided to walk a slackline over a boundless ocean with an anvil on my head. Hunched, off-balance, exhausted, in anticipation of plunging into the depths. I sat waiting in dread, in outright primal fear of the future. The truth is that without a Wookie, my beloved furball, half-sweet black lab, and half-ball-obsessed golden retriever mix, I truly have no one to live for, and living for myself just seemed like so much work.
Up until a month ago, Wookie and I had our routine down. I looked to him over the last few years to help me write my memoir, to remember the hard things every morning at 5 a.m., like picking through every detail of the car accident I survived which killed my parents, and mining the memories for those gems of moments during hospice with my brother, those which simultaneously broke my heart and lifted me up.
As I punched the keys in my bed, sorting through the timelines of my life and unleashing the tears, Wookie glued his nose to the window slider patiently waiting for his time as the sun slowly rose, illuminating the darkness.
As many great writers can attest, having the warm energy of a silent soul can only fuel such inspiration. Somehow, Wookie instinctively knew that when the laptop was open and marked-up pages surrounded me on the king bed, it was a sacred time. When I finished typing my last word for the day and said, "Ok buddy, let's go," he'd bolt.
As I'd open the front door, my sweet boy would immediately shove his long, sleek nose into the metal bucket containing the bright blue Chuck-it and dusty, tattered tennis ball. He'd wrestled the ball from the launcher head, and we'd begin our daily sojourn to the vineyards around the bend. We'd walk in peaceful sync, his tail in full wag in time with a universal, invisible metronome, gently and peacefully greeting our neighbors and doggy friends, who cheered him on for living another day past the age of 15.
Wookie was lightning-fast up until a few years ago. He ran circles around the verdant vines at our neighborhood vineyard in Napa Valley, playfully chasing rabbits for sport, always catching up with me eventually, staring me down with his abnormally long tongue askew, panting for joy, ready for more, his stance so athletic, almost regal.
Wookie traveled leashless on my left, yet we were always invisibly tethered to each other by a celestial string. Perhaps one might call this true love. It is a strange thing to be so connected to a being I found while I was drunk puppy-searching on Petfinder.com after a raucous night of karaoke at the one bar in my tiny town. The ad read: "Black Lab/Golden Retriever Mix 8-week-old puppies, only two left." In my inebriated stupor, I thought: My ideal mix. I must have this puppy! If only a man could appear so easily with "the right mix," a human mutt who is house-trained, handsome, loyal, and cuddly. That begs the question: why wasn't I looking at Bumble instead of Petfinder?
The shelter called me the next morning inviting me to come meet the puppy. Hungover, my head was in a fog that morning, trying to put the pieces together of how I managed to coherently fill out an adoption application at 2 a.m. in such a pickled state. So, I drove the hour to the Golden Retriever Rescue where a little black fur ball jumped into my arms with the warmest grin, knowing instantly he had a home in them.
Since the loss of my parents from a car accident in my 20s, a dark shroud had encircled me. The darkness followed me through the sweet surrender of my first pup, Obi-Wan, a lab mix who traveled the world with me and passed away at 15. The somber fog attached itself to me for the almost 20 years of brain cancer that consumed my brother, taking him from me slowly and wretchedly.
I adopted Obi because I needed some Jedi love, being the only survivor of the accident. I didn't know how to function in a world without my parents' existence, afraid to ever love again and simultaneously understanding the brutal cost of it.
So, I grasped at straws wondering if a puppy might be a way to experience even a flicker of joy when I was so broken, unsure of my desire to continue living in such a cruel world. Indeed, puppy training was a perfect distraction for the hurt. Obi was a little black mush learning how to operate in this new world. In fact, we both were.
Years later, Wookie ushered me through hospice with my brother, always keeping a watchful eye on me, instinctively knowing to put himself between me and Tomas when I was overwhelmed, frustrated, or incredibly sad. This dog cared for this caregiver. As I look into Wookie's precious, weathered face on our outings now, I realize that I am hosting hospice at my house once again, but this butt I must clean is a lot hairier than that of my older brother.
I flashback to images of taking Tomas on vineyard walks as he slowly went from walker to wheelchair. From outright fear of peering over the cliff of death, to the act of falling, to bracing for impact. Death does that to you, forces acceptance of a reality no one wants to face, yet faces us daily as mortal beings. We are all walking to this destination or, in Wookie's case, shuffling.
His sense of smell has trumped even his love for the ball in these last days. I imagine it is the one thing that doesn't cause him pain at his age. I notice the gray fuzz accumulating around his mouth and those tired eyes, weary with the knowledge of the world, but still so clear of his purpose here, to watch over me since I have no one.
I see the shift between a carefree, unblemished, youthful puppy, tail wagging, rushing to meet me at the door and ready to play, to the old guy who rarely wags his tail anymore and cherishes long, sweet hugs, as I do. When we go on our walks, I fetch the ball now. I throw it in an attempt to see a hint of the rambunctious puppy still existing. The one who would ram into tree trunks, trip over himself and steamroll through any other dogs to get to the ball first. I still walk with the chuck-it because it is my crutch now, not Wookie's. I can sense that he humors me with these walks because I need them.
I tear up watching his weary gait, wondering if this will be the last time we embark on our beloved walk. No more click-clack of the toenails on my Brazilian Cherry floors, attempting to get my attention for breakfast and vineyard playtime. I will be prepping in the kitchen solo, sans an enthusiastic furry sous chef, in wait for a tasty morsel that might splatter out of the pan or fall from the granite counter.
More than anything, my house will feel less like a home without that curious little head stalking me from behind the chaise, thinking I can't see him since his Jedi invisibility powers have not faded. It is the unabridged, unfettered affection a dog can bring, which makes an ordinary life extraordinary. I suppose it is what devotees of the all-mighty God hope for when they pray. Yet in front of me, every day was my version of a pure being, a God of sorts, a reason to get out of bed when all I craved was eternal sleep, the excuse to go outside for a walk, the answer to the question of why live?
I live today to give Wookie bacon bites and tear-filled hugs on an hourly basis on his last weekend, dreading the moment when someone asks me, "When are you getting another dog?" My dogs have been my children and I doubt someone would ask that were I to lose a human child. Wookie is, after all, irreplaceable. I feel as if I have lost more than I have loved, but I will say that I have loved so very deeply and unforgettably, thanks to my saviors, my dogs. What lies after one more day is the hope that I choose to love again after such loss, knowing that it's all worth it. I still hope.
Michelle Mathai lives in the Napa Valley managing a wine and food estate to fuel her writing and running habits. She left her career as a Foreign Service Officer to care for her brother living with brain cancer and was so inspired by his courage and lessons learned from his hospice that she created her podcast, Written on Water, which explores life, death, and meaningful connection.
All views expressed are the author's own.
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