Choosing

Fluffy is just about give out - to quote Beatrice. He's 18 years old. Ancient, for a dog - even a poodle known to live a long time. He only eats a little now - baby food mostly - and has a few laps of water at a time. He's given to bouts of shaking and when we take him outside, carried and placed on the ground, he can only take a few steps before falling backward and rolling around. He is consistently incontinent. He is pretty much blind and deaf now and sleeps almost constantly. He's dying. And we have begun the conversation. What quality of life could he possibly have? When will we let go and do the best thing for him? Where is that line between fighting for him to live and choosing for him to die? What if he bounces back - again? For he has been almost gone before. And survived.

There was the time when he was a tiny pup and stayed out all night one night. I've written recently of that experience. We almost lost him to pancreatitis years ago. He didn't eat for almost a week and I would just hold him and pray. I asked God to heal him or take him - the very same prayer I prayed over my mother. The prayer you say when you can't stand to see them suffer anymore. The ones you love. God answered both. One he took. Mama. One he gave back to us. Fluffy. I found that he would lick a little bit of baby food from my finger. Not from the jar, or a dish or a spoon, but from my finger. So I sat and dipped out sustenance one tiny bit at time. And he slowly came back to us.

About three years ago, the vet heard a heart murmur. And we notice changes in his breathing. He labors sometimes. A little over a year ago he had a seizure, possibly a stroke. He couldn't move his back legs for several days and wouldn't eat much. The vet said he probably wouldn't make it and prescribed some pain meds so we could get through the holidays before having to make any decisions. But he came back again. Healed somewhat, somehow, and started walking, eating, drinking. Diminished for sure but we saw sparks of the old Fluffy.

He survived two major moves - to Texas and back. If anything, this last one, the one back home, has been the hardest on him. And here we are, having the conversation. Is it time? He's not a cat, but does he have one of the nine left? What number are we on anyway? Time is surely running out. For Fluffy. But how do you know when to give up? I now pray that he dies in his sleep and we don't have to choose the day. I pray the same thing for me, truth be told, for whenever my day comes.

I messaged the boys. We have Fluffy because of them. He is the pet they prayed for and loved. He made us a better family. The decline has been more shocking to them since they aren't around every day. They've both seen him in the last three weeks and agree he can't be comfortable - they want what's best for him. Just like us. But what is that? Are we being selfish? Am I being selfish? I'm struggling. And just so, so sad. How do I choose the day for him to die? I just don't know. So I pray. And cry.

And out there in the big world, there is this larger conversation going on. This choosing life and death conversation. I have been sad and sick in my heart and stomach. I have wanted to offer some good words tho I am the least of all people to have a say. So I pray. And cry. But the one thing I know for sure is that I will not clap and cheer on the day Fluffy goes. I will weep and mourn. Because that is what you do when death comes - no matter the course. There will be no pink-lit-up celebration of his death-day. There will be a sweet remembrance of his life-days-years. And a solemn burial of his body. Along with a baptism of tears. And the hope that dogs really do go to heaven - that he will live again and we will be reunited in the great renewal of God's creation when this broken old earth passes away. Not different at all for what I hope for myself - for us all. No more pain, no more tears, no more choosing death-ways - only life-ways. Home for good.

Could it be that Fluffy has been ready for a long time but just waited for us to bring him home? Or is it the other way around? Has he been waiting for us to get home? So he can go home for good? Maybe so. Maybe so. Did you know that dog spelled backward is God? I don't think that's accidental. Fluffy sure taught me a lot about God. Over here, we continue the conversation(s) and prayer(s) and trust that Fluffy and God will lead us right. I believe we are in good hands. Selah.