To All The Pet Owners

A friend of mine and an artist, Michelle Fulton, painted Charly’s portrait a year before his passing.

I put my dog, Charly, to rest on February 2, 2023. He was thirteen and a half years old and couldn't be operated on to remove his cancer. Couldn't be treated with chemicals either. His heart was too weak for any procedure. But not feeble enough to hold a world of love for me and my family.

You may or may not expect your parents or loved ones go away as they get old or sick. But there is always a cushion of space between you and them, as you may not see them every day until their end comes, or they demand a private space of their own, pushing you away with your 'unnecessary' feelings. You can throw your sadness into that space, toss your doubts, purge your feelings as if it's a void. That space is an extra room that allows you to wait for the end, come to terms with the inevitable. It's a place where you can ask forgiveness and hear that you're forgiven.

But your pet can't push you away, and there is no space between the two of you. There is not even a slit or a fracture where you could stuff your grief into. You can ask forgiveness all you want for things you may not even remember doing, and you will never hear that you're forgiven. Dogs can't speak.

But when you hug your dog, sobbing into his warmth, he manages to wriggle his frail body out of your embrace and start kissing you all over. “There is nothing to forgive,” Charly's tail wiggles, “only everything to love.”

Aida