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I used to have a dog. And she was special. Not to say other dogs aren't, because I know they are. Each special in their own unique way.

I used to think this was how one could say that no dog is particularly special without hurting anyone's feelings. But then, I met her and learned the truth. Her special was deeper and bigger and rounder than any I had encountered before. It had a gravity of joy and love. It was clumsy and generous and regularly bowled me over.

It was a safety net that I crashed into more times than she deserved. Her special healed me more than I even knew I was broken. I told her every single secret I ever had. She took them all with her to an impossibly small cedar box that now sits on my bookshelf.

I don't remember any of them now. I only remember that I used to have a dog.

Well, not the very end. Because we are not there yet and my imagination is too wild for me to stay there right now.

On March 25 of last year, I made a deal with the universe. I wasn't ready. One more year. Please.

One more year is marginally less than what I received.

In that year, Bernie has had short spurts of joyful wildness, jumping around the room. Infrequent, but enthusiastically welcomed, dance parties. She occassionally would lay on her back and turning into a giant fur squiggle, evidence that she still had interest in her favorite hobby. She would hunt for the joint supplements we'd hidden around the room. She demanded, with a furrowed brow, a prompt and punctual food schedule.

Through the gradual decline, I regularly asked her, “Is it still worth it?”

She answered by wiggling her eyebrows and I trusted that I knew what that meant.

On her particularly old lady days, I would gently sing Cate Le Bon's chorus of Are you with me, now? I would get a wag of the tail.

Those have become exceedingly special over the course of the last year. A fact I have been aware of this whole time, even while I tried to deny their increasing rarity.

Two weeks ago, as she wore her giant lampshade collar, her eyes zeroed in on me and I watched her develop the idea to chase me around the kitchen island. She smiled and I laughed and we did two laps. Tired, and under the give of her arthritic hips, she collapsed into her sheet. My heart ached in a whisper that knew that was probably the last time.

It felt like a gift.

I just thought we still had more time. And that is why we decided to do the surgery.

The universe was quick to remind me that I had my year and more.

Bernie has spent 48 hours at the emergency vet. She has met about a dozen more people. I'm sure she would like me to correct my earlier statement, as making friends is clearly her favorite hobby. They have been so good to her. And she has been happy to demonstrate her food negotiation skills. She wasn't there for 10 hours before she found all of the heart strings, pulling and lulling the staff into giving her canned chicken over her bland prescription food.

Don't worry. She ate both.

Yesterday, they let us use the on call room to visit. I laid on the floor with her. We both scooted around the floor trying to find our own comfort. And then each other's comfort. We did some cuddles and some back scratches. And then I turned on some music.

And Cate Le Bon asked us both Are you with me now?

And Bernie placed her head in my lap and quickly fell into a nap. We haven't done that since she was a puppy.

We sat there like that for over an hour. Bernie sleeping in my lap while we both floated in Sad Lady music.

And it was perfect. And it felt like surrender. It felt like permission.

I just had the most rewarding experience. I don't want to put myself at the center of it or share someone else's story, but I do want to share something. When I was first thrust into facilitation work, I was terrified and felt like such an imposter.

The only way I knew how to move through it was to admit to myself and to groups that I was going to screw up. Maybe a lot. I was going to screw up, but I was going to continue to show up and grow up in front of everyone because we all need role models of becoming.

At the root we are all scared of not knowing, of doing the wrong thing, of causing unintentional harm, of being perceived as caring too much, of being perceived as not caring enough, of being raw, real human beings vulnerable to the thoughts and feelings of others.

It's such contradictory conundrum that we insist on doing it alone, hidden away from the judgement of others.

Because we ourselves have lacked the modeling of being imperfect in earnest, we deprive others the same and we continue a cycle that makes being a curious, compassionate, available person feel psychologically unsafe. Which then creates spaces of real psychological unsafety for the most vulnerable, the marginalized, and the oppressed.

So, maybe you feel like a fraud. Maybe you feel like a clown. And maybe everybody really is watching.

But that's important. That's the point. It's the lesson. You're the role model. It's okay to not know. That's what questions are for. And when people can take their focus off of their own insecurities, they are empowered by their own vulnerability to safeguard the vulnerability of others.

I'm so grateful for today. It's truly been an edifying experience.

I found a crow's feather this morning. Just happened upon it. My brain was immediately obsessed with it. There are so many folk, mystical, superstitious, and spiritual meanings attached to the crow through various cultures. I'm not sure what it is about that bird that so fully captures our imaginations. I walked passed it, but my mind kept going back to when I was a kid and my dad stumbled across a similar feather.

It had been a really trying time for our family, but encountering the feather just settled his soul somehow. He went to the library to read about crows and what they symbolize to different people (hey, I get it from somewhere). He spent an entire afternoon parsing through vast and conflicting mythologies. He realized, at the end of the day, its meaning was his to decide. It had blanketed him with a calm reassurance, so that's what it meant.

But that conclusion was his responsibility; it was the product of his intention. I went back outside to find the feather. The last three years have been dark and incredibly challenging. I just wanted to capture this moment of serendipity. To keep it and make it mine. It was gone, just disappeared.

I felt a small amount of panic when I couldn't find it. As I searched, the detail of my memory became richer and deeper. I took a moment to evaluate how ridiculous this whole thing was, but I didn't concede to that idea. The moment was important. Connecting a dot in my present to a dot in my past. Remembering the nature of humanity, how things become imbued with meaning.

Possessing the feather was unimportant compared to acknowledging the responsibility of intention. I turned to go back inside, and there it was. Sitting in my path.

I would like to tell you that I left it there, evidence of my full grasp of what I had just learned. But I picked it up. I brought it inside, and rested it in the glass jar on my bedside table. A small but mighty talisman. A reminder of our human capacity to divine what we need from the ether and our duty to know these trinkets are just pieces of ourselves.

The vet, Dr. Fulcher, called me this afternoon with the histopathology results. It is a mix of good and neutral news.

It was determined that the tumor was consistent with a locally invasive cancer that has the potential to spread other places (most often to the lungs), though less than 50% of masses like this actually metastasize.

The mass that was sent off for testing was sectioned into five samples. It was determined that all malignant cells were successfully removed in three of the five samples. However, the remaining two were inconclusive.

These results are a huge relief, even with their uncertainty. Speaking with the vet there really isn't much to do now except regularly check her for new growths. We could do a chest x-ray at this point to see if she has anything in her lungs, but it wouldn't really change our course of therapy at this moment. Given Bernie's age and current state of health (which is otherwise fantastic), any possible intervention would just degrade her quality of life (which she has in spades).

I have spent the last few weeks mentally drawing every worst-case scenario decision tree that I can conceive of. This news falls well outside of what I feared. Exhale.

I have decided, at this point, to forgo the x-ray, so that I can focus on Bernie's overall health and happiness without the anxiety of what-ifs that can't be managed. Dr. Fulcher agrees that this is the best approach. Bernie is well into her geriatric years and still behaves like a puppy, given the right circumstances. On her worst day, you might think she was middle-aged.

It only makes sense to me to let Bernie lead the way.

Thank you so much to everyone who has reached out, offered listening ears and lending hands. Thank you for you thoughts, vibes, prayers, and all the ways you set out to move the universe to our favor. It means the world to me. And to Bernie, even though I can't adequately explain it to her.

She just knows she is your friend, even if she's never met you. Because Bernie is absolutely everyone's friend. That's just how she functions. That's the joy she brings me every minute I get to know her.

I'm just happy I get to keep knowing her for awhile longer.

The trailer for Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy was soul-crushing for me. My immediate thought was: Absolutely not. Nope.

I already understood the bond between a sad, broken girl and her dog. I did not need Michelle Williams’ sullen and lonely gaze to drive the point home.

Years before that, I’d had my first reckoning with Bernie’s mortality. To be clear, she was healthy, uninjured, intact. Nothing had happened. Well, nothing beyond a momentary acknowledgement of the impermanence of life and the mere biological discrepancies between canine and human life expectancies. A thought that is heart-sinking to be sure, and for me required no less than three tissues. A thought that established itself as a strange, ill-conceived coda, popping up at erratic intervals, its significance indecipherable.

All of this to say, I love my dog. Everyone loves their dog. And I am no authority on who loves their dog less or more. But I will tell you, with great confidence, that I love my dog the most. As will anyone who is a proper friend to their canine companion.

---

Two and a half weeks ago, I noticed a mass on Bernie’s abdomen. About the size of a golf ball, it was difficult to miss. Shocking, because I somehow must have missed it. Because things don’t go from nothing to golf ball. Unless they are the harbinger of very bad news.

Cue coda.

On Monday, after spending hours on hold to make an appointment and waiting weeks for it to arrive, we finally made it to the vet. On Tuesday, we knew it was cancer.

Before we proceed, it is very important to know – or, rather for you to know that I know – that is all we know.

That it is cancer. A diagnosis, no prognosis. There is no expiration date. At present, there is no pain or suffering. There is only the syntax-less data from a lab analysis and a golf ball hanging off Bernie’s belly.

From here it is uncertain. And I mean that in the truest sense: There is a 50% chance that surgery will eradicate it. There is a 50% chance it won’t. There is a 50% chance it is slow, non-aggressive cancer. There is a 50% chance that things are about to get difficult very quickly.

Cue coda.

On Wednesday, I soothed myself by just hanging out with Bernie. Playing with her. Watching her dance, chase, fetch. Observing her earnest interludes with Moxie, attempting to convince the cat to join in the fun. Nothing was different than the day before. Or the week before that. Or last month or year. I calmed myself knowing that the end has not arrived. That this is what matters right now.

On Thursday, I demolished whatever serenity I cultivated the day before.

It could be days, weeks, months, or years from now. At this moment, there is 0% chance of knowing the timing. But, whatever its timing, it is 100% going to happen.

Cue coda.

I searched for every reference on coping with aging dogs, chronically ill dogs, terminally ill dogs. I sifted through every canine end-of-life option I could find.

When do you know? How do you know? Natural or assisted? In-office or at-home?

If you know me, you know I cannot resist staring down the worst-case scenario. You know of my absolute inability to stop looking for answers. The impulsivity and intrusiveness of my brain’s rapid generation of new questions. If anyone had been observing, I’m sure they’d see nothing but insane and voluntary torture. But every time I took pause to have a good cry and re-hydrate, it became evermore apparent that the closer I came to needing this information, the less sense I was going to be able to make of it. And the cycle would start again.

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It's now Friday, and I am fine. Fine enough, anyway. And Bernie is great. She’s doing much better than me, really.

However, I’m sure I do not look fine: My face is slightly puffy, and I have that telltale swelling of every single emotion sitting right behind my eyes. But really, I’m okay. I’m just processing.

This is not a tragedy.

Rather, a meditation on what life is and who we are in it. On how we tend to and care for loves we did not earn. A little bit like a Kelly Reichardt film, where the characters struggle to negotiate what is right and good in a world where their best is simply not enough.