It is six in the evening on a Friday, and I find myself writing to thousands of friends I have not yet met. I am here to ask if we can change our plans and meet a little later.
Here is why.
I have a dog named Janet. She has been ill for nearly two years now, with a tumor quietly growing in her chest. She is almost fourteen years old. I brought her home when she was just four months old and I was twenty one. She has been my child, my constant, and my truest companion.
Janet’s beginning was not kind. She was found in Echo Park with rope marks on her neck and scars on her ears and face. She had been used by dogfighters as the one to build the confidence of the others. Yet despite that cruel past, Janet has never started a fight, never growled, never bitten. She has always been a gentle soul.
She is the most consistent relationship of my adult life. We have moved through houses and makeshift families, but in the end it has always been the two of us. She has slept with me, rested her head on the pillow, held me close when I cried, and let me fall asleep with her chin resting above mine. She has been under my piano while I wrote songs, barking whenever I tried to record, and sitting in the studio with me through my last album.
But time has shifted. When I came home from the last tour, I saw a change. She no longer wants to go on walks. She is tired. And while she is not afraid of aging or dying, I can see that her time is drawing near.
I know that one day soon she will no longer be a dog beside me, but instead she will be in the wind, in the soil, in the snow, and in my heart wherever I go.
And so, I cannot leave her. Not now. If I go, I may lose the chance to sing her to sleep, to be there for her final moment. This decision is instant. I will not be the woman who places her career before love and friendship. I will be the woman who stays home, bakes tilapia for her dearest friend, and makes sure she is safe, loved, and comforted.
Many of us fear the death of someone we love, but there is something sacred about the time that rests beside the end. I know the greatest depth of love will be felt in those last moments with her. That is why I must be here.
So tonight, I sit beside her listening to her snore, breathing in that awful yet beautiful breath, and I am grateful for every second. I ask for your understanding and your blessing.
Love,
Fiona