Into the Mystic

Last Saturday, after yet another vet appointment, I took Milo to P. Terry’s for his usual post-exam treat. He devoured the two meat patties in a single gulp, then eyed my vanilla milkshake. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to eat the cup. 

I let him.

I have spent the last year perpetually keeping paper products out of Milo’s reach. Times I have forgotten to move something or failed to place it on a high enough shelf, I have returned to find little chewed scraps—of, say, a magazine, a book, a large section of the manuscript I’m editing—strewn about the room, the bulk of the masticated document resting in Milo’s belly. 

Milo’s desire to eat paper has been driven by the steroids he has taken to keep him alive after a sudden onset autoimmune issue very nearly killed him in April of 2023. I let him eat the cup because the vet and I had concurred, fifteen minutes prior, sitting there on the clinic floor with Milo lying between us, that there was no hope left. No diagnostic testing was needed to conclude this definitively. You can see it in his face. Literally.

Something, possibly a brain tumor, recently robbed Milo of sight in his right eye and now is pushing that eye out of its socket. Surgery would likely cause him to bleed out due to his platelets deficit. His breathing is ragged. His back legs are, again, giving out, losing strength. When he wants to get in bed now, he puts his front paws up on the mattress and then waits for me to wrap my arms around his belly and hoist him up.

So, no, we definitely do not need a weatherman to know which way the wind is blowing over here. There’s a black cloud in my throat and it is raining, very hard, in my heart.

Save for a few days he spent in an intensive care hospital last year, Milo and I have never been apart since the day we first met, two weeks before Covid shut down the world. For our first two-and-a-half years together, before I took my museum job, I barely left his side at all. To say we are extremely attached does not do our relationship proper justice. He is my Little Spoon. I have spent more time in his company than with any other being since my son left home eighteen years ago. 

On Wednesday, our vet will come to the ranch and lend Milo an assist back into the mystic. I have been through this so many times before with so many other dogs. I know the routine: the waiting, the cannonball in my stomach, the anxious anticipation, the helplessness, the hopelessness. 

I canceled all of my Saturday plans after that vet visit. I got us home and we got in bed. It was not even 1 pm. We stayed there all day and through the night. Having sat with many dying sentient beings, I knew enough to try to stay focused on Milo, to not cave in to my own tumultuous emotions. Keep calm and carry on etc.

Several useful thoughts arrived. I reminded myself that Milo has no concept of Wednesday and no concept of death. It is a truth that dogs very much live in the moment. I vowed to do my best to follow his lead, to fight the urge to project ahead to the dreaded appointment with death. I kept him near, did some knitting, watched some TV. The flood of tears that overtook me at the vet’s office receded as I feigned normalcy and then, to my great surprise, felt true normalcy (well, our version of it) settle over us. 

It’s possible I reached a state of zen, though I suspect the calmness I experienced was more a result of the fattie I smoked and my superpower skill of slipping into dissociation at will. Who cares if it's enlightenment or weed or denial, I thought. Just stay in this zone. 

I time traveled back to the summer of 2018, to the home of my beloved ex-brother-in-law David, who had urgently called me to his Portland bedside. Remembering this hasty visit, I recalled it was David who taught me it is best, if you are able, to greet death with a casual howdy, invite it in, treat it—as Rumi might counsel—like every other house guest. 

Though I had only been married to his brother for ten months before filing for divorce, I maintained my friendship with David and his partner Ken, visiting them annually for nearly a dozen years before David’s cancer finally made it clear there were no more medical interventions available to keep him alive. 

[The Last Day of Our Acquaintance]

David, a retired hospice nurse, had planned his ending very thoughtfully, including utilizing Oregon’s Death With Dignity Act, which allows legally assisted suicide for teminally ill people. When the writing of finality appeared on the wall, David announced he would continue dialysis for a few days, long enough for his friends and family to come say goodbye, then drink his magic potion and be on his way. I booked a flight immediately. 

We only had a couple of days together. We discussed how best to spend this limited time. David suggested we stick with the mundane. His body was exhausted. He napped frequently. When he slept, I ran errands for him, helping to tie up some loose ends, walking miles to a post office to send out his farewell correspondence to far flung friends. Briefly he rallied, long enough for a trip to the crematorium, accompanied by Ken and me, where we cheerfully flipped through a catalog of urns like we were perusing some overpriced Sunday brunch menu. 

David remained calm—even funny—through all of this. He really made us believe that it was just another day, nothing special, like so many other days we had shared before. I am both embarrassed and comforted recalling how some of his last words to me were regarding yet another unworthy man I had foolishly set my sights upon. Oh how David had counseled me endless times over the course of our friendship, helping me get through not only my divorce from his brother, but a number of other ill-advised relationships. There we were, last conversation, nothing special, just like so many other conversations we had shared before. 

The morning of our last day together dawned. David sat in his living room, waiting for a friend to come take him to one of his final dialysis treatments. It is a very odd thing to know with full certainty the last time you will see someone. I wasn’t sure exactly what to say or do. Again, my dying friend set the pace. When his ride arrived, we stepped out onto his front stoop, looked deeply into each other’s eyes and embraced. I bowed. I said thank you. Then we said goodbye. 

The absence of dramatic proclamations and heaving sobs during that final exchange allowed us to be truly together as we always most preferred: a couple of goofy old friends, just hanging out. It was his last gift to me and his best, showing me a gentle way to be in the presence of death. It is a gift to me now, grounding me and keeping me from losing my ever loving shit over my Best Boy. 

As was David, Milo will be assisted with all dignity in shuffling off his mortal coil, aided by compassionate professionals who will make his exit as comfortable and gentle as it can be. (We should all have access to such mercy.) As he is going, I will look him deeply in his one good eye and I will hold him tight. I will bow. I will thank him. And I will say goodbye.

NOTES:

Last year when Milo first fell ill, a good many of you chipped in to cover his exorbitant medical costs. I will remember this for the rest of my life. My gratitude is boundless. Thank you. 

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