L'amour de ma vie

Chérie was born in a closet in Denver. Her mother, a humble-eyed mix of schnauzer, terrier, poodle and quiet dignity, pushed her out last. I was there to watch her make her appearance for the first time. Chérie slithered into the world in protest, verbally complaining, bossily squirming past her plumpish siblings who had come before her. At just one minute old, the runt of the litter, and with her brown eyes still closed, Chérie was undoubtedly in charge.

Not much has changed 17.5 years later. She is as vibrant and bossy as ever, often displeased, and still in charge. Her independence, self-awareness, and her uncanny ability to see through people have made Chérie unownable. Unlike other sappy-eyed, tail-wagging loyal companions, Chérie has always regarded me as her equal. I merely facilitate her life, ensure her will is satisfied, protect her health and safety and guard it with all my power and exhaustion. As with anyone I’ve invariably loved, her interests have easily and recurrently surpassed my own.

I guard her wellbeing, taking clues from her, watching, comforting, but always allowing her the space and dignity she’s claimed since the day she was born. I guard and protect her from predators, from manmade machines, from poisonous diets, wanton wanderings, long, curly toenails and overeager children. As her guardian, I offer her adventure, car rides with the windows down, and the opportunistic midnight beach runs where we chase after giant seaweed monsters with bulbous heads that trail with long, skinny tails under a sky of low stars and no moon.

At night, Chérie snores on her pillow next to me, unapologetically. Lately, Chérie has been coughing. She is dying. Her 17.5 year-old heart is thinning and her feisty blood has begun to seep into her lungs. She coughs a little and sleeps a lot. Though she is almost 18 years-old, her eyesight is strong, her sense of everything is strong and she stares back at me when I watch her with sadness. Her eyes go up, then down. She studies me as much as I study her and I feel compelled to turn away and leave her in peace as she's always asked of me.

Life is circular. We all, one day, return to our essence, back to the place from where we came. I'm not afraid for her death. I don't fear it and I don't feel sorry for it coming. She has lived a full life, on her terms. What more could an independent girl wish for? 

I've decided to write this blog at the end of her life to document her spirit so that I can remember her strength and will. There will be no lamenting of limitations or exhaustive explanations of what's changed, what's lost--only celebration of spirit and life, and all the funny, wonderful things we all still have to look forward to until our last day. Perhaps others in similar situations with elderly and aging loves will also find solace in that although the mind and body may go, the spirit never diminishes.