All These Places

There is just no pretty way to say it.  My dog is dying.  The glass half-fullers may jump in at any time and say “But she’s had 11 good years,” or “Aren’t we all dying really?  Isn’t that the process of life?”  But no, it’s cancer.  Cancer.  It’s a word that speaks of endings in its beginnings.  For my dog Maggie, it means that her front leg is infected in a way that can’t be fixed except by amputation.  And that, I will not do to her because both back knees have already been replaced.  Have I mentioned yet that she might be the world’s most expensive mutt?

                And so I will tell people that she is dying and tell them why I must let her do so.  And I will question myself as to whether I am giving up on her….because that’s always my thing—“Have I tried hard enough?”  And in a hugely selfish way, I will know that to lose her will be a bigger crush to my life than it is a celebration of her eleven long years as a semi-well-behaved dog.  She has always had personality, though, even when she’s attacking other dogs and eating things off the counter.

                So this week, Maggie is back at the beach, in what very well could be her final visit.   There will come a time, most likely sooner than later, when I will have to make that decision that I shouldn’t have to make.  The “it’s time” decision.  There will come a time when she will tell me that she is no longer enjoying herself.  But this is not that time. 

                Maggie turns into a puppy when she is at the ocean.  She runs around in circles in the sand and stalks seabirds just like she did when she was six months old.  She picks up pieces of kelp in her mouth and tosses them into the air.  She wants to sniff dead jellyfish in the sand.  She never quite gets the hang of getting out past those waves that break in the surf.

                Part of me thinks that if I could just keep her on the beach forever that our time would never end.  But I’m working on embracing the hard stuff in my life.  So instead, I will pull her close to me in the sand and nuzzle my face into her big ol’ head.  I will tell her a million things with my thoughts alone about how much she has meant to me and how much I will miss her when she’s gone.  I will then let her run, without fear of further injury to her legs or beach police, and I will watch her go. 

                I will watch her breathe the ocean air and exhale it with a big doggy smile.  I will wonder how I will ever be able to have a good walk on the beach again without her by my side.  And I will let her go, when it’s time.  But I will never forget that big, goofy brown dog that ran on the beach that looked back occasionally for reassurance…..telling me that she was OK, telling me that I would be too.