Panel 3 of José, “mamma” (mommy). Watercolor and pen, by Ayoung Kim

This day is soft in my memory

—as if soft clouds frame every moment in a benevolent cushion.

José had spent the previous twenty-four hours unloading his bowels and guts. It smelled foul, like poison coming out of him. In the weak, early morning light, he stood trembling in my office, barely able to support his anorexic frame. I looked at my boy; he looked at me. His eyes were far away; his guides were already taking him. He was becoming translucent, like the faintest, finest veil. But I could tell there was a sliver of his consciousness that recognized me. From this untouchable, far away place, I heard his message: Enough. I wasn’t strong enough to act on this in the moment. When he lost consciousness a couple of hours later, I had no more choice.

He had ceased eating for the past few days. Now, passed out on the floor, we knew it was time. He was no longer living; he was miserable. Once, when C and I had both been out of the house for a quick errand, his aunt who lives downstairs said she heard him howling and crying. The tortuous pain of cancer. C carried him downstairs and laid him in the back of the truck. We began driving to the hospital—having alerted our Vet about the situation. C played Hawaiian music as his final soundtrack. In a surreal film, we passed the dog run where his best friend lived—a homeless man named Bill. We passed the ocean where he had swum in bracing waves.

On a whim, C pulled into the parking lot when suddenly, José lifted himself and sat upright. We cried harder in confusion, feeling as if we had been caught betraying him, about to end his life. José, are you ok? He sniffed the ocean breeze, his nostrils twitching. Normally, when José inhaled ocean air, he would sneeze into the back of my head. This time he did not. We watched him closely; he eyes closed and he again slid into unconsciousness. We sobbed and debated, Is it really time? He just woke up! But I knew, my boy had sent me an unequivocal message in the morning: Enough.

The scene is terrible, chaotic.

We tried to imbue it with as much compassion as possible. The Vet held a comatose José in one arm and the injection in the other hand. Ready? She asked us. Wait! C pleaded, and whispered urgently into José’s ear. I gripped his paw, tied with the red Buddha cord. We gave a nod and in went the injection. It was swift, mercifully swift. Our boy was dead in a second.

We bawled for the rest of the day and night. It was anguish to see Pablo alone, without his pair. When we returned without José, he sniffed all of José’s usual places, thinking he must have hidden himself in the yellow painted walls. He sniffed out the window; maybe José had become the wind.

I do not remember how I slept that night. I do not remember how I woke in the morning. I do remember continuing to sleep on the twin mattress on the floor.

José did not delay in relaying a message back to us. The next morning, C had discovered a butter-colored moth in José’s sleeping spot. Large, delicate, serene. The wings were immaculate, and elegantly displayed. It sounds cliché, but I’ll say it: He went to the Light. He’d made it.

José was in peace, no longer suffering. He forgave us for fumbling along during his illness, for being clumsy and clueless to the unbearable pain he bore. For his sake, I’m glad the cancer took him early—we did not get three months to a year. We had him for one more month.

José El Guapo

C, Pablo and I walk in the dog park. This time, C and I walk with deliberate steps, feeling the vibrations of certain areas. We throw a ball for Pablo who sprints out to fetch it. We stop at a majestic, redwood pine tree. It sits just above the lake, where José would dive into if we weren’t vigilant with his leash. I place my hand on the trunk and feel its warm energy. C digs a hole at the roots, then pours in the ashes. We cover it with dirt and leaves. And one peanut butter cookie.

We have a second cookie for Pablo—to distract him away from José’s—and lead him back toward the dog run. There’s no sadness for me. José is now part of the tree; we’ll have him forever. We exit the park with sunlight on our backs.

No one told me it could be this beautiful.