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.

People, especially we denizens of western civilization, are often linear critters. Things had a beginning and will have an end. Life is a journey from birth to death to whatever comes after that (I don’t pretend to know). We mark off lives in time relative to predictable expectations and norms and “acting our age.” I am entering what is called “middle age,” bringing with it the expectation that my life is halfway between its beginning and its end, as well as expectations about what I should or shouldn’t do. This linear story often has “high points” and “low points,” an expectation of “glory days” and “good times” (usually in the younger years) and a long, steady decline full of anxiety, nostalgia, and reaction beginning around 40. Is this why middle-aged people so often start thinking the world is coming to an end?