Murphy is dying. Can’t stop it, might be able to slow it down a bit, as long as she’s comfortable. Not sure.
All I’m really sure about is that she’s dying.
And that many people, including well-meaning friends, are idiots.
I’m sure most idiots don’t mean to be, well, idiots. But here’s a painful situation where all you can do is laugh at them, because what you really want to do is scream and cry and yell.
People say, “She doesn’t look like she’s dying.”
Well, what the hell does dying look like? Ask them that, nobody seems to know. They shrug, embarrassed, because truth is, in our ridiculous self-centered, youth-blinded culture, we have no idea what dying looks like. Because we don’t have to look at it. So we don’t.
Instead, we assume that death is old, debilitated, too feeble to walk, too sick to care, crippled and pathetic. Kept alive by a blind faith in technology and a refusal to let go until there’s very little left to let go of.
Death is something we lock away in nursing homes, or ignore until we can’t anymore.
People say, “She looks good. Are you sure she’s dying?”
Idiots. Yes, I’m completely sure. Don’t like it, but I’m sure.
And you know what? I’m glad she looks good. I’m glad she feels good. I’m glad the idiots are saying things like, “She doesn’t look like she’s dying.”
Because I realized that my life with my animals and theirs with me has defined a new way of living together as multi-species families. It’s defined a new way of looking at the human-animal bond.
It looks at animals as equals. At lives as valuable. At choice as real.
At death as part of the process, part of our lives together.
Ironically, it’s only at the end of a beloved animal’s life that I realize we are defining something more for multi-species families: we are defining what death looks like.
Death looks like Murphy. Vigorous. Happy. Tired.
Dying.
We don’t like it. But we’re living with it. Until it’s here upon us. And then we’ll say goodbye.
Not one second sooner.
(c) 2012 Robyn M Fritz
Oh, Robyn. It is so hard to express myself right now. Until someone has such a relationship with an animal, who is also a part of their family, they can’t begin to understand. I think that people sometimes just don’t know what to say when confronted with death. I know that in the end, you will do what is best for Murphy, as painful as that might be for you. Because of the love and the connection and your looking out for her, even right up to the last day.
I held our Nuz in my arms when he died three years ago. It was the least I could do for him. Murphy knows that you will be watching out for her and helping her along her way. She is precious and I know you will treasure every single second with her. I feel honored to have met her last summer. Sending love along to you and Murphy. Thanks for sharing this.
Thank you, Judy. It is true, people don’t know what to say! I’m one of them. But I’m allowing myself to be cranky over what people somehow think dying should look like. Thanks for sharing the story of Nuz, it sounds like a wonderful ending for all of you. It matters that we all try to do the best we can. Right now, we’re enjoying wonderful family time.