Ready, or Not

It was time for Luna to die. I think in her heart Kaylee knew. 

She would leave voice memos. At the emergency vet again. The Cavalier King Charles was limping. Sick. On terrible drugs. But always she’d find a bright spot. Her tummy was better today. I think. A bit. 

I went over one night. Toward the end, though she wouldn’t say it was the end. No one would say it to her. As her romantic relationship simultaneously dissolved and the bottom fell out on the duct tape details of her life, the ancient dog was in a poor state. Her eyes were glassy and her body uncoordinated as its gears and systems unwound. 

I knelt down on her kitchen floor to do a laying on of hands, to confirm what I suspected. 

I learned young, from giving back massages to friends, that I could speak to their souls when they could not. Useful skill? Perhaps. Perhaps not, but once you know it’s there, difficult not to flex it. 🤷🏼‍♀️

As I’d often done with dogs and people, with turtles, and, to the least extent, cats, I melded my soul with the ailing Cavalier King Charles and I took nonverbal canine dictation therein. The words came easily through my hands. 

I could have done it with my eyes alone, but not as surely as with my palms and breath.

The little dog inhaled with labored effort and I felt her spirit trapped. Eager to go. Unable to go. I stayed on the wood floor, quiet and concentrating, as Kaylee looked on. I had waited till after a few sips of our wine so as not to seem completely insane, though I know she’d never judge me in my element. If Kaylee hadn’t yet known explicitly that I had this skillset, she had surely assumed it. There was no surprise about her in how she waited now, looking down at us with focused attention.

I had never told her a hard truth before. Those weren’t the terms of our friendship. I do not like conflict. Or to be adversarial. I like to be liked.

But because I loved her and because I knew her dog needed a diplomatic voice, I rose from the floor like a languid slinky, part monkey and never straightening, moving into translation from animal to the person who loved the animal. I draped my arm over my friend, slipping outside the bounds of everyday civility, as amateur shamans must do sometimes. I made my energy a direct line from suffering-dog to holding-on-friend. With the weight of my body to keep her from hitting the ceiling, I told her softly and plainly: 

“Luna is asking that you let her go now.”

And she was quiet. Which she never is, my chatty friend. She took a breath and it seemed, finally, to be a real and deep one, as she hadn’t in months of phone calls and scattered voice memos. I knew there could be no more of this I’ll ask the vet if —I wonder if the dosage —if if if —Maybe Maybe Maybe. Hope— I hope —I’ll try.

Her sigh was low and full, and Luna’s was shallow and high, and I felt relief because already energy, long stuck, was moving. 

“You’ve been the best mama to her for so many amazing years and she wants you to let her go now. She told me she’s ready.” 

And I fled to my Uber.  Because, I may be a shaman, but I am also selfish and awkward. 

I don’t like much to tell the truth, but little Luna was grateful for it. Euthanized the next day and set free into doggy spirit vapor.

And Kaylee sat with the terrible, empty quiet of her apartment. With the detritus of her once boyfriend and beloved dog. The crate, the blanket — the sweatshirt and sheet music. Remnants of the last phase and seeds, not yet broken ground, of the next. 

The timing was uniquely terrible. Of course. Death is so frequently inconsiderate and never asks first, “Are you ready to grow? Would Thursday be okay for you?”