I'm a 42-year-old woman, and I'm lying half drunk on the kitchen floor. It's not my usual position at this hour. At 1am, I should be on the couch, reading the New Yorker and training my mind to think about something other than my son's dietary habits. But, tonight, the kitchen floor is the sole place where I may find some sense in my world. Embracing uncertainty. Unable to control change. Too weak to stem the tide, but willing to love anyone and anything that comes near. And I'm learning this from the most graceful and sweet soul to ever share space with me on a kitchen floor. My beloved, and dying, dog.
The black velvet of her head and ears, that always smells sweet no matter how long has passed between baths. The greyed muzzle with stiff whiskers. The soulful brown eyes that completely, utterly, trust me to bring home one chicken nugget every night from work. The tail that has lost all hair, and only partially wags. The wound on the shoulder that just won't heal. The legs that don't always lift up the decreasing burden of her body. The nose that pushes hard against me for love. The full-body stretch when I scratch her belly. This is Mags. Maggie. Magsamillion. Magus Aurelius. Magpie. This. Is my soul.
And I'm going to lose her.
And it's okay. At least, that's what she tells me. I ask her on our painfully abbreviated walks every day, "Today, Mags? Tomorrow? Do you want my help in sluffing off this damnable mortal coil?" (I'm very poetic with my dog. She gets it.) I tell her she can join Odin's wolves in Valhalla. I tell her Anubis will watch over her journey. I tell her she owes us nothing, she can watch over us from heaven, we are not her responsibility. In response, she picks up the pace. She trots. Her head raises to its previous proud height, before Cushing's Disease became a known enemy. She looks like she did when we adopted her four years ago. "It's okay," she says. "Yes, but not yet."
So I lie half drunk on the kitchen floor. It's the middle of the night. Her breathing is labored. She doesn't push into my pets. She sure did find a way to scramble up for that chicken nugget, though. I bury my nose at the base of her stoll. "Today, Mags? Tomorrow?" I'm not even sure what "Today" and "Tomorrow" are at this hour. She works her front elbows together with some labor in order to hold her chest and head high, "It's okay. Yes, but not yet." I doze next to her, feeling the weight of uncertainties. All uncertainties. And I feel her calmness in the midst of all.
I ache to know how long is too long. I don't want the responsibility to choose life (is it painful? can you tell me? are you suffering, a lot?) or death (...) for a beloved animal. In the last few months, I watched both my grandmother and adopted father languish, and perish. I had, with my whole being, willed for them to pass more quickly, and yet the choice was beyond my reach. It was beyond my authority to choose death for my beloved humans, even though they themselves clearly spoke their preference. Here, where I have (with my family's input) authority over life and death, the choice is not so clear. It is within my power to end whatever suffering my dear Maggie may be experiencing. Whether it is pain, loss of dignity, exhaustion. I could end it. Yet, her spirit persists, and if she is in pain, her grace has overridden its communication. The choice is not so clear. I only half-sleep most nights, listening for her stirring so I may help her up if she needs assistance. I'm reprising my old role in hospice care. "Is it time, girl? Is it time?" She shakes her head - a real ear-flapping whup-a-flup - and I just keep hearing, "It's okay. Yes, but not yet."
