Stay awhile longer

This morning, my dog Milla and I woke up to a gray sky and a weak sun rising above the tree line. Usually, she'd be whining to be taken out, but instead, she remains in bed, her eyes woeful and large as she stares at me. I push myself up and make my way to the bathroom. That's when I hear her stumble after me, then her crash as she falls against the wall and slides onto the floor, her limbs splayed beneath her.

It's another seizure. This time, bigger than the last. Her entire body trembles and her eyes are panicked. She's looking at me like, "Mom, help me. What's happening?"

The toothbrush falls from my hand and clatters into the sink. I feel panic and dread, but I can't let her see how scared I am. I can't let her feel my fear.

As the seizure subsides, she starts to howl and cry as she can't seem to get her legs under her to stand back up. She tries valiantly for a few seconds - each time sinking back onto the floor. She wants to stand but she can't. I reach her side and I push her back down.

"It's okay, girl, it's okay," I whisper, my hands running down the length of her. "You're alright."

I repeat these words over and over even as my heart sinks and I know she's not alright. She's not okay. It takes every bit of my resolve to stay calm as I sit with her on the floor, smoothing down her soft fur with rhythmic motions.

Please don't go yet, I pray to her. I'd never been super religious, but I pray nonetheless, putting my whispers into the universe. I still need you. You can't go yet. Stay with me a little longer. Please.

It's the same prayer I've been repeating for the last few years since the seizures started. I know it's selfish to ask that she stay for me. I know it's incredibly selfish to think that I should bargain for more time if her time was truly up, but I swear I would give up a year of my own life if it meant one more for her to be with me here.

Through the turmoils of my human relationships, she had been my steady, my constant, my rock. Her calm and loving demeanor was my harbor light when I was tossed in the storms. Through the longest and loneliest nights, I knew I could see another dawn because she loved me when no one else did. When I was so broken, I could barely stand, when I couldn't see a purpose to remain, it was my dog that urged me to go on and to push forward. She's brought me this far, brought me back to purpose and to living. And maybe that's the reason for her in my life all these years. Maybe if I believe that there is reason and purpose for all connections in our lives, maybe this was her mission - to save me.

But in return, how do I let her go? How do I say goodbye? Have I given her enough? Did I do enough for her? Did I love her well? How do I save her back?

I can't think of a future without my best friend. Social justice, war stories, all these personal projects, they mean nothing as I sit in this moment with her head in my lap. My sweet girl was all that existed, all that mattered.

The vets say there's nothing they can do for her until the seizures are longer and closer together. I know she's 13 and that we're both lucky because boxers only average about 10; and that every minute we have together now is a minute against the clock running down. I know this even as we both try to stay in the moment, to hold on to every second and make it worth it. I know all this yet I can't stop the tears. I can't stop the heartbreak. I put on a strong face and confidence because I don't want her to pick up on my worry. I don't want her to feel for me when I am falling apart about her.

God, this part of loving and letting go is so hard. No one ever tells you about the last years of your dog's life. The focus is always on puppies and training, but no one ever talks about how their bodies break down, how their hips hurt even when they want to play so badly, how confused they are when their minds are no longer clear. But most of all, about how fast these final years are and how you are just grasping and hanging on for more time.

She's tired now. I help her up and we manage to walk outside for her to do her business. Her gait is cautious, unsteady. I shorten the leash and walk closer to her in case she collapses. My girl, my puppy, my love.

I pat her head and tell her again that she's okay. We stand for a moment and take in the birdsong. Is she remembering her younger days when we'd be lost in the Appalachians listening to other birdsong? Or is that just my human emotions placing those memories there on us? Maybe she's just enjoying the sunrise, just listening to the world waking up. Maybe I should too.

I remember back to those early years when we both had more youth on our side. Oh, the mountains we climbed. We never thought about the end back then. How she would run ahead of me, joy in every step.

And now, no matter how slowly I walk, she is always steps far behind me. I stop and crouch down. I call her name and watch her trot slowly towards me. Her eyes light up and she's trying. She wants to run so badly, but instead, her hind paws scrape the ground as she finds her way to me.

"It's okay," I say to her. "Take your time. I'll be here. I'll always wait for you."

And as she butts her head against my face, I whisper softly, "But don't go yet, okay? I still need you. Stay awhile longer."