Life can change so quickly over the course of a few days.

It started on Tuesday with her sudden tiredness and lack of desire to eat or drink water. By Wednesday morning, Millie was no longer able to stand up, and was breathing rapidly and shallowly. Terrified, we rushed her by ambulance to the animal hospital, where a few tests determined that she was severely, life-threateningly anemic, and needed an immediate blood transfusion. We were told to find a large dog (German shephard, mastiff, etc.) who would be able and willing to give several bags of blood to Millie. After a panicked phone call to our wonderful dog walker, Ainhoa, she made calls on our behalf, and within an hour, not one, not two, but three owners, whom we had never met before, came rushing to the hospital with their dogs (2 golden retrievers and a mastiff). I could not believe that these owners would give up their time to bring their beloved dogs to a hospital to give bloodto another dog that they had never met before. There are no words to describe how humbled and how moved I was by their selflessness. In the end, the mastiff stayed, underwent anaesthesia, and stayed overnight at the hospital to give his blood to Millie. Today (Friday) we found out that the transfusion was a success, and Millie was able to eat a little and walk. But after further tests were done to determine why the anemia occurred in the first place, the vet informed us that they had discovered she had terminal cancer, with tumors in her spleen and lungs. Even with the best of medicine, she would last only a few weeks longer. We arrived at the difficult decision to put her to sleep, in order to spare her further pain as the cancer progressed. We will be taking her home from the hospital tomorrow and she will spend the next seven days at home with us and our other dog, Angel. We will bring her to the hospital for the last time next Saturday.

I only had one pet as a child - a beautiful rabbit named Blackie. As a child, I think one’s relationship with a pet is different than the one we experience as adults. When Blackie died, I remember sobbing uncontrollably for days, trying to cope with the sudden emptiness, the sudden loss. But this time, the loss is different - as an adult, the relationship we have with our pets is one of profound depth and companionship. When we bring these animals into our own home, going through all the difficulties and challenges in raising them, house-breaking them, loving them, educating them, taking care of them (all without any exchange of spoken words in a common language), we become blessed by discovering our most loyal friend, an unconditional love, and the indescribable joys of tail wagging, sloppy licks, wet noses, belly rubs, and furry hugs.

My mother never allowed me to have any pets after Blackie - and now, as I think about Millie, I wonder if she did so in order to spare me the pain of this kind of loss. As horribly painful as Millie’s passing will be, I also know that I would never trade the time I have had with her to avoid this pain. Whenever we love deeply, whether it be our pets, our partners or spouses, our family, or our children, it is a risk that we take when we make that irreversible decision to pursue real companionship and commitment. Perhaps that love is as deep and meaningful as it is, because of the very fact that its loss is so painfully devastating.

 I always think of Millie as my melancholic, Chopinesque poet - sensitive, a little frail, slightly neurotic, yet so sweet and loving in her affections. She constantly mopes around like someone who is ruminating on Camus, but as soon as she smells some whiff of food, she comes running to you in her uniquely goofy child-like way, like a fawn who is trying out her slightly too long legs. When she plops down on the ground, tucking her long legs underneath her, I always picture Bambi. Her enormous ears, like large triangular antennas, earned her nicknames from everything from Batty to Yoda. Millie has the most extraordinary way of comforting you. She doesn’t lick, doesn’t whine, doesn’t make a sound - instead she just comes to you, and quietly nuzzles her long, beautiful nose against your arm. There have been countless times when I have been curled up upset on the couch, or irritated at the piano bench practicing a particularly tricky passage, and she has quietly come up to me, nudging her snout under my arm. She has the most unforgettable snore. Sometimes, she will be sprawled out on her bed with her legs occasionally twitching, accompanied by a low rumbling sound coming from her nose. I always imagined that she must be dreaming of running freely through green meadows, or playing on snowy hills, or perhaps chasing after a bird or squirrel.

The sorrow is unbearable - right now, I feel as though my heart is about to burst and my body about to break in two. How many more hugs and kisses can I give her over the next week? How many more times can I lie against her and feel her warmth and the steady and comforting beat of her heart? I already know that it will not be anywhere near enough. But at the same time, I know that I have one more job to complete - and that is to make sure she goes peacefully and with a serene heart. I must not cry, I must not show my sadness to her over the next days. Because of her sweet nature, I know that she would immediately attempt to comfort me, to nudge me with her black, wet nose - but this time, I cannot indulge in it.