She told me we were looking at a 50/50. As much as I hated the news, I appreciated her honesty. "We got as much of the tumor as we could," she said. "But we couldn't get all of it. If she can make it another year, she could live another five. But if not... we might not have long. What matters now is keeping her comfortable." That was two months ago.
I first met Luna in 2012, when she was a year old and I was twenty-three. It was the third date in what would blossom into a marriage. "I want you to meet Luna," Holly said, going to fetch her puppy. When she returned, I felt a second calling of love at first sight.
Holly would go on to tell me that the moment she introduced me to Luna was the moment she knew who I truly was. This was the moment she knew that we, too, were meant to be. I remember watching her run around bearing her shih tzu smile and I can recall that memory like it was yesterday. And in the dozens of years since I met her, I'm bombarded with a cascade of fond yesterdays and I'm still sifting through them.
The 4th of July is a day of independence, but this particular 4th represents an independence I've dreaded. After her surgery a couple months ago, she livened up, representing the pup she used to be. She ate like she'd never heard of food, putting on two pounds in as many weeks. She was lively, and she was Luna.
After those first couple weeks she'd have a nasty cough creep up a couple times each day. This could be normal during recovery and it should've waned. It didn't. These past few days she woke up at 6:15 and would hack away for minutes on end. I scheduled the return visit I dreaded, hoping against hope that my fears were misplaced.
It could be kennel cough, or a respiratory infection. Hell, even a collapsed lung. But it was none of those things. We learned today that her cancer had spread.
I don't envy veterinarians. Aimee Seguin is a veteran in her industry, with fifteen years under her belt and she manages a damn-fine team. She's had this talk thousands of times but in her eyes I saw that it hadn't gotten easier. Not a bit. "Sometimes it feels like the sweetest dogs and the most loving owners get the worst news. God, I hate it," she said. She almost cried. I did.
I was a latch-key kid raised by a single mom who'd led a hard life and I guess I never viewed my own feelings as a commodity worth the cost of exchange. I've often questioned my own humanity because I can never seem to cry, even in the moments when tears are mandated. This emotional deficiency of mine has caused problems in nearly every relationship I've ever had. Today, however, has been an especially human day.
Luna's still with us for now, though Aimee made clear we're looking at days, maybe weeks. After the prognosis, my best friend Alex said we should have a cigar, so we sat there sweating our asses off in the Carolina heat. We had Sweet Janes - in this instance Bittersweet Janes - but all I tasted were the tears I could never seem to shed. Now, I couldn't turn the damn fountain off.
Every night, Luna crawls up on my chest to say goodnight once I'm in bed. When I play guitar, she sits at my feet and you'd never know from her demeanor that my strumming isn't shit. When I carve away at my pipes, she sits at my feet and pays no mind to the wood chips that sprinkle down on her while as I chip away.
She's always loved the smell of pipe tobacco, and being present as I carve. When I open a tin, I let her smell it. Like most lightweights, she prefers aromatics. She has a particular disdain for most things GLP, but if Greg met her, I'm sure he'd forgive her in a heartbeat.
When we got home today, I set out all the blocks I have on hand, before holding them up to her one-by-one. Her energy levels are low, but she raised her head and sniffed one of them. That one's going to be for her. I'm going to stop working on everything else and carve this one - which I'll call Moonrise - in honor of the friend who has brightened my days for a third of my life.
It's an impossible task, learning to let go. I don't want her final days to be filled with rivers of tears, but I'm only human and I guess I'm learning to accept that. I feel like my heart has been torn from my chest, but sometimes, I think that's what hearts are for.
I believe that life moves on, that throughout this whole universe, energy never goes to waste. In Stephen King's Dark Tower series he talks about moving on to the path beyond the clearing. Whatever that is - wherever that is - I know she'll find it. And I know she'll be missed.
I first met Luna in 2012, when she was a year old and I was twenty-three. It was the third date in what would blossom into a marriage. "I want you to meet Luna," Holly said, going to fetch her puppy. When she returned, I felt a second calling of love at first sight.
Holly would go on to tell me that the moment she introduced me to Luna was the moment she knew who I truly was. This was the moment she knew that we, too, were meant to be. I remember watching her run around bearing her shih tzu smile and I can recall that memory like it was yesterday. And in the dozens of years since I met her, I'm bombarded with a cascade of fond yesterdays and I'm still sifting through them.
The 4th of July is a day of independence, but this particular 4th represents an independence I've dreaded. After her surgery a couple months ago, she livened up, representing the pup she used to be. She ate like she'd never heard of food, putting on two pounds in as many weeks. She was lively, and she was Luna.
After those first couple weeks she'd have a nasty cough creep up a couple times each day. This could be normal during recovery and it should've waned. It didn't. These past few days she woke up at 6:15 and would hack away for minutes on end. I scheduled the return visit I dreaded, hoping against hope that my fears were misplaced.
It could be kennel cough, or a respiratory infection. Hell, even a collapsed lung. But it was none of those things. We learned today that her cancer had spread.
I don't envy veterinarians. Aimee Seguin is a veteran in her industry, with fifteen years under her belt and she manages a damn-fine team. She's had this talk thousands of times but in her eyes I saw that it hadn't gotten easier. Not a bit. "Sometimes it feels like the sweetest dogs and the most loving owners get the worst news. God, I hate it," she said. She almost cried. I did.
I was a latch-key kid raised by a single mom who'd led a hard life and I guess I never viewed my own feelings as a commodity worth the cost of exchange. I've often questioned my own humanity because I can never seem to cry, even in the moments when tears are mandated. This emotional deficiency of mine has caused problems in nearly every relationship I've ever had. Today, however, has been an especially human day.
Luna's still with us for now, though Aimee made clear we're looking at days, maybe weeks. After the prognosis, my best friend Alex said we should have a cigar, so we sat there sweating our asses off in the Carolina heat. We had Sweet Janes - in this instance Bittersweet Janes - but all I tasted were the tears I could never seem to shed. Now, I couldn't turn the damn fountain off.
Every night, Luna crawls up on my chest to say goodnight once I'm in bed. When I play guitar, she sits at my feet and you'd never know from her demeanor that my strumming isn't shit. When I carve away at my pipes, she sits at my feet and pays no mind to the wood chips that sprinkle down on her while as I chip away.
She's always loved the smell of pipe tobacco, and being present as I carve. When I open a tin, I let her smell it. Like most lightweights, she prefers aromatics. She has a particular disdain for most things GLP, but if Greg met her, I'm sure he'd forgive her in a heartbeat.
When we got home today, I set out all the blocks I have on hand, before holding them up to her one-by-one. Her energy levels are low, but she raised her head and sniffed one of them. That one's going to be for her. I'm going to stop working on everything else and carve this one - which I'll call Moonrise - in honor of the friend who has brightened my days for a third of my life.
It's an impossible task, learning to let go. I don't want her final days to be filled with rivers of tears, but I'm only human and I guess I'm learning to accept that. I feel like my heart has been torn from my chest, but sometimes, I think that's what hearts are for.
I believe that life moves on, that throughout this whole universe, energy never goes to waste. In Stephen King's Dark Tower series he talks about moving on to the path beyond the clearing. Whatever that is - wherever that is - I know she'll find it. And I know she'll be missed.
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