Something happened on that walk. I still felt the grief of loss that occupied the silences between the bustle of everyday life. But something else began to take over: a sense that it was all part of something bigger, that life and death and light and darkness were all one and essential and part of a broader cosmic unity. I miss my best friend, but I will carry with me all that we experienced together—until the day that I, too am gone. I hope to have letf behind some positive memories for others, as well, when my time comes. I also take with me, not only the memories, but an imperative—to live in such a way as to honor the memories of those lost along the way.

He wanted to sit on the outdoor couch with me but couldn’t summon the leg strength to jump. His muscles had shrunk as his body struggled to funnel protein to his enlarged and failing heart. I picked him up gently and set him beside me. For the first time that day, he seemed genuinely comfortable. The air was cool, but not cold, and crisp. There was just enough sun to offer a little warmth. I scratched him on his head, behind his ears. He leaned into my hand as he leaned on the couch. We were tired and we were sick. But for a moment we both felt comfortable and loved.
Less than a month later my wife and I wrapped Chewie in a blanket and carried him to the car. We took him to the vet, and they led us to a room in the back with a cold stainless-steel table. There was a bit of conversation and explanation, a form to sign, two injections, and it was over. My best friend is dead. I am not ok. I have not been ok since.