“Dreaming of the dog,” ink on paper, by Ayoung Kim

I don’t cry as much anymore.

You get used to it. Death. We thought we had to euthanize José three times already. We’ve made the decision to forego chemo. We’ve had the discussion of If He Goes During the Night. If he goes during the night, he’ll release body fluids and defecate—prepare towels. Cover him with a blanket. Drive him to Colma to the pet crematorium.

No one slept last night. Each time José got up, pacing, panting, we woke up. At 5:30am I finally followed him into my office where he lay against the back wall, next to the orchid. His belly bloated, his breath short, his eyes closing, I though—This is It. The Time. I performed a blessing ceremony, sprinkled him with holy water, lit candles, burned incense, and alerted his guides to his imminent arrival.

Instead, he lumbered up and I followed him to the spare bedroom where he vomited next to my charcoal figure drawing. Then, he lay down and promptly fell asleep.

You get to a point where it just becomes a part of your daily life, a small awareness that gets included in all of the mundane tasks. Besides living in the awareness that he could drop dead at any moment, there is life to be lived. Floors to sweep, groceries to buy, friends to see. We’ve already agreed that we can’t both we out of the house for more than an hour, already agreed to have our phones on at all times. And yet, we must go on. Must rise each morning, brew tea, read the paper, get out of the house. Occasionally.

Last night C said, I’ve been invited to Ben’s tomorrow?

We’ve started issuing our statements as questions? Because we don’t know what’s going to happen? Or how? Or when?

I said, Yes, go ahead, I’ll be home all day with my phone on?

My sister D called last night.

What’s going on with José?

I looked down at him and said, He’s still alive.

Oh, she said, then we laughed.

What can I say? He’s bloated, he’s panting, he’s smiling and wagging his tail. It isn’t time yet.

Several times before, I thought it was time, but it wasn’t. It can’t be his time yet when he still climbs into bed with me, although last night he got in upside-down so I had his rump under my chin. He escaped at some point when it became too hot and I found him sleeping against the bed in the morning.

C hung a Hawaiian beaded necklace

around José’s neck. I tied a Buddha cord around his wrist. That way, he won’t get lost in transit. They’ll take one look at the beads and say, Tropical beach-heaven for José. I’ve already told him about heaven:

Heaven is one gigantic beach where you can swim in warm waters, where endless tennis balls and plastic discs are tossed in the air. Where there are dozens of dead birds in which to roll around and no one will scold you.

Heaven is a huge banquet table stacked with freshly-baked challah bread, bagels, muffins, chocolate cake, and peanut butter cookies. It’s an All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet where you are allowed to put your paws on the table and snatch whatever you can reach. Best of all, you don’t get bloated and sick afterwards. Heaven food doesn’t make you sick or throw-up.

Heaven is a continuous car ride with your head out the widow.

Heaven is—and this is true—unbridled joy, unrestrained creation, unconditional love, and unending butt-scratches.

My youngest sister

wrote a lovely tribute to José. We saw her last weekend, and when it was time to leave, she scratched José’s muzzle and said, Remember—I’m the one who picked you.

This girl who is the youngest sister to everyone but older sister to no one—except José. When we were invited to see the litter, he wobbled over to her and began playing with her shoelaces, and that’s how she chose him.

Everyone has a special memory of José. As I bend to kiss him between the eyes—a perfect space for lips—I wonder, how many lips have kissed this space? How many hands have stroked his head? How many hearts soothed and calmed by simply being near him?

Infinite, like stars in the sky.