To look upon death

A stranger dumped a puppy in my yard yesterday afternoon. I was standing at my desk in front of the window and watched as a man sat a puppy down in our front yard to (what I assumed was) pee. I yelled to my housemate to look outside. When she opened the screen, the stranger was walking away and, clearly surprised, yelled back, “I found this. I can’t take him in”.

She scooped up this small black creature and cradled him like a baby. He was gentle, lolling, obviously exhausted, and happy to be attended. He let us cuddle and bathe and blow dry him. To hold him, to gush. He let our elder dog give investigative sniffs. He napped in the evening sun. He wagged his tail and rolled to invite belly rubs. We loved him. Immediately.

We talked about the ethics of returning lost pets and the logistics of how to identify a pup with a collar but no tag. We took photos for lost pet postings, and planned, and secretly hoped no one would respond to our attempts. We agreed not to bestow him any name, lest we become “too attached”. *Rolls eyes into the back of my skull*.

Late in the evening as we made our first attempts to provide food and water, it became clear, very quickly, that this small creature was quite ill. He had a deep, deep thirst and no appetite whatsoever. We tried hand feeding, but he could hold no liquids. We planned a vet visit for the morning and set up camp on the bathroom floor. We tended and cuddled and loved into the late/early hours. We documented our efforts and the dosages and the timestamps and noted improvements and shared our worries with each other. Out loud, we willed a happy ending. Silently, we imagined the stories we’d tell of this dear one; how we nursed him from the brink and he became our kin. (And willed that, as well). But that was not to be.

When our pup drifted into deep sleep, we agreed to do the same, albeit briefly… We acknowledged that caring is hard work and that stamina requires rest and staggered our alarms appropriately. We tucked our pup in and left the camp to anxiously and fitfully attempt to sleep.

In the darkest hour of the morning, my housemate shyly made her way through my closet to the bathroom door. I listened intently for the cooing voice she reserves explicitly for dogs, but nothing. *Fuck*. Instead, quietly, “Kira..?” *Fuck*. I sat up and looked for her outline in the dimness… “He didn’t make it”. I got up and made my way to confirm what I already knew to be true.

We fretted and then shifted our energy into doing. We researched and contacted city services and made a request and were given instructions for pickup.

More doing.

Back in our cramped camp, I asked, “Would you like me to do this without you?” And she did. So I did. Or at least I started to.

I think of myself as someone who can look upon death… I think of death as a necessary literal and metaphysical nutritive cycle. So, for better and worse, I have never feared it. And with that, I have lived beyond many literal and metaphorical near-deaths… All to my betterment in their own ways. Death is an opposition; a challenge with a gift on the other side. And I think that our collective fear of death is rooted in our avoidance of it. It’s hidden. It has minimal due process. It’s isolated. And isolating.

And so, as I started to prepare this dear one as I had been instructed… to do… to hide… to disengage… I stopped. And gazed upon this small, small death instead. I called to my roommate. And when she reported with the needed items for the next step of our instructions, I said, from idk where, “No... We shepherd death”. So, instead, we sat. We gazed, and pet, and loved, and cried. We stated our sadness out loud. We silently held space for our grave disappointment.

And then, not a moment before we were ready, we gently shifted back to our tasks. We did as we had been instructed and before 8am, the story had ended.

But of course it hasn’t, really.

I am surprised at my own grief as the morning moves forward. That a non-human kin that was with us less than one full day could inspire such deep connection. And longing. And the chest heaviness that cuts your breath short to make space for tears.

But I think that, sometimes, this is what it means to witness — to risk connection in any form. I feel a deep gratitude that, although ultimately our efforts were only palliative, we somehow called in this opportunity to provide such needed care and warmth. I also feel a deep loss of that connection and the story and ending that I secretly wished for and willed. It feels heavy. And complicated. And that is mine that is ours to sit with, at least for today. But it’s also our story now, to hold and to more deeply bind us, for forever.