August 10^th. That was the actual day. The day my boon companion died. It wasn’t the day I mourned him. Those days started seven years ago. It really hit me when he was four years old. The knowledge that he would come to his last day. I remember that day vividly, we were out taking a walk, which we did everyday unless the weather was so bad neither one of us was willing – those days were few indeed. We were out walking, him just a few feet in front of me, sniffing along the trail, and it began in my solar plexus, a mixture between a flutter and a clench, a trembling in my chin, my nose filling with mucus, the hot tears spilling from both eyes, the gut certainty that he would leave me, draw his last breath, be no more.

The sorrow was overwhelming. The inescapable knowledge of his impermanence. Not today, I told myself, it’s not today. I had years, many years. He was only four. I figured I would get nine, maybe ten more years. The depth of my sorrow frightened me, how much it hurt at the mere prospect of his absence.

This would not do.

So, I made it a habit, most days, not everyday, but most days, I would remember. Remember that our time together had an expiration date. That he would leave me and be no more. It would always cause tears, every time. The stoics call this practice memento mori, to remember death. Not to be maudlin but as a way to cherish the now. The fact that death comes, but not yet. And I would. It would make me play with him a bit more, give him a few more pets, tell him what a great dog he was and how very much I loved him. Ostensibly, it has another purpose. To acquaint oneself with the grief, to make friends with it, so that when it comes, the tsunami of sorrow will not crush completely. A way to prepare for the wave.

I told myself this was necessary, so I would not be unmade when Kepler’s day came. I thought I would be prepared.

I was wrong.
The night of August 7^th, he was in distress. He had been eating a lot of dirt lately, which caused me some concern and that night his abdomen was clenching, he was panting and drooling – not good signs. I decided to watch him throughout the night and that next morning I took him to the vet. We dropped him off and they told me they would call when they knew more. I went home. A few hours later, they did call and simply said, “The doctor wants to talk to you.” That’s when I knew. I could hear it in the vet tech’s voice.

On the drive back to the vet, those feelings I had seven years ago returned with a vengeance. Because I knew. Oh, I told myself, wait, you don’t know for sure, let’s hear the doctor out.

But I knew.

And of course, it was the worst news. A cancerous tumor that was causing him to bleed internally. That’s why he was eating dirt, he was anemic and probably had been bleeding internally for some time. The doctor said he had two weeks, perhaps a month. But I knew that wasn’t right either. She said he would bleed out internally within that time – and I knew I would not put him through that. He had a very rough night and I was not going to put him through such again.

So, I got him home and really started to practice memento mori. His time was short. I arranged for compassionate care to come that Sunday, three days hence.

He didn’t make it that long. I told him all day Thursday, all day Friday, how much he meant to me. How I had the pick of the litter but I chose him. With his floppy little skin tag on his left ear, because I thought maybe no one else would pick him because of it. I told him why I named him Kepler, after the astronomer who was always looking to the sky. Just like he did. I told him what a great dog he was.

I told him how much I loved him and how he was my best and constant friend for eleven years. How much I would miss him.

Then Saturday came and the abdominal clenching started all over again. I knew it was time. Compassionate care happened to have someone who was just five minutes away. Did they want her to come? Yes.

She came. He was happy to see her, as he was anyone who came by the house. He went to the spot he would occupy during those rare times when I would leave him, rarely for more than a few hours. I sat in front of him. He licked my face. Comforting me. Him, comforting me.

I held his head in both my hands and put my eyes a scant few inches from his. I told him goodbye. She injected him. He slumped almost immediately. She gave him the overdose. His eyes stayed open.

And he died. I held his head. I put mine against his.

Run, I told him. Run. You are free now.

Wait for me.