One sorta trauma-survivor-y thing about me is that I tend to grieve everything in advance. Maybe it’s a survival tactic. Maybe I’m looking out for myself. Maybe it’s Maybelline… but I digress…

Ever since my dog, Mazzy, was diagnosed with heart failure a few years ago, I’ve been grieving a little every day. Still, grieving the loss of her in advance doesn’t seem be lessening the blow now that she’s closer to the end.

And it’s not that I’m not “ready.” I am ready. I just have no way of knowing when she’s ready. She’s just so damn tolerant, and I guess, so connected to me that she’s beating all the odds right now. It’s hard to tell when it’s time.

It’s been a stressful couple years, keeping her “healthy.” Sure, her medications are ridiculously expensive, but aside from the financial side of things, it’s just been a lot energetically. I’m not sure I’ll ever know when she wants me to end her suffering…because most of the time, she seems fine.

I struggle with the things I don’t know. Like, how will it happen? And how can I ensure it isn’t awful for her if I don’t know the answer to that question? It’s a control freak’s nightmare, truly.

I need a psychic…. or an adultier adult. I need my inner child to feel like she can rely on me to make the call, but I don’t know what to do. Mazzy still wags her tail when she looks at me. She still bounces around like a palomino when it’s dinner time. She still gets crazy excited when I walk in the door or pull out her leash. But walking’s getting harder, and the weird symptoms just keep showing up…

Aidan’s first reaction after I told him he needed to prepare to say “goodbye” to a dog we’ve had his entire life was to let out the most heartbreaking cry I’ve ever heard from him. It was so alarming, I wondered whether he was faking it.

The first thing he said between sobs struck a chord. He asked me, “What if she forgets about us?” I’d never thought about it from that angle before. I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I still don’t.

Now I’m going to do something a little weird and pretend like my dog can read. I’m going to write her a letter. I just feel like I need to do this for myself, so why not do so publicly? Here goes:

Dear Mazzy,

I never understood what you saw in me, but our connection has always been obvious.

I remember how I used to call you up into the bed, even though that dude I used to live with hated it… You could jump so high back then…and run like the blustering wind…  

I don’t want however long I have left with you to be cloaked in sadness, but goodness…this hurts. I’ve been here before with other pets, many times—but it never gets easier, and somehow this one hits a little harder than the rest. I mean, you were the dog I asked the sky for.

15 years later…you’re still here. You’re like a beacon, connecting chapters 2 and 3 of my life—through so much change… So patient…so quiet…. following my every move—my own personal dog-shaped shadow.

Is it possible I’m subconsciously keeping you here? I want you to know that it’s OK to let go, I may be sad for a bit, but I’ll be OK.

I wonder if you’ll visit me. I wonder if one day I’ll be sitting at my desk and feel the weight of you leaning against my leg. I wonder if I’ll get sad when I look over at the corner of the room where your bed used to be. Will I occasionally hear your feet, restlessly clip-clopping up and down the hallway in the middle of the night? Will I go for slower walks, imagining you’re stopping every 5 seconds to pick up a new smell? Will I reach back from the driver’s seat to scratch your head and be surprised that you’re not there?

I’m trying to think positive right now, but I fear the absence of you will be one of the heaviest things I’ve ever had to carry.

Aidan’s best friend, Twyla, told me as tears streamed down my cheeks one day, that when it’s time for me to watch you close your eyes forever, I “shouldn’t stay too long in the gloom.” She said that I should get up and “step into the rainbows” right away. She’s only 10. Children can be real insightful sometimes…

I’d like to think that someday you’ll come back…cloaked in a different skin. Maybe you’ll have blue eyes instead of brown, but you’ll look at me the same. Maybe you’ll cock your head to the side as I grin at you. Maybe your spirit will still comfort me when I need to break down in the hallway for a bit. I’ll be on the lookout, ma’am.

Love always,

[Whatever your name is for me…]