I blame Apple Music‘s Autoplay function. Wait, I blame the bouldering gym first. I Shazam‘d a song playing overhead – arguably one of the better products of the internet, an app that can recognize most songs within a few seconds – and later added that musician to my library, just to give her a proper listen. The artist was Abby Sage, and the particular EP I added is The Florist, with “Backwards Directions” being the song of note.
Having a solid two weeks of busy-ness since our return from a stellar Hawaiian getaway for my 48th birthday, I put my to-do list aside on a rainy Friday afternoon (we meet again, atmospheric river) and put myself in a salty bath to unwind, with Ms. Sage playing in the background.
As Apple Music is wont to do, an autoplay line-up ensued after the completion of the aforementioned EP, and I instantly got either coffeeshop vibes or flashes of some coming-of-age indie movie with the main character staring out the window of a moving vehicle, contemplating next steps in life or ruminating over a recent heartbreak.
“I Promise” by Lila Dupont filled the air while I ran a razor over my unshaven legs; I paused.
“But I think I’m at the point where
The less and less I want to see
Easier imagined than guaranteed…”
You know that heavy weight that washes over you with grief or the receipt of unexpected bad news? Yeah, that one. It started crushing me during an hour of self care.
The cause? Not politics or wildfires or ICE raids or the rollback of trans rights. Something much closer to home.
The realization that I don’t know how much longer our sassy 3-pound Chihuahua will be with us. She‘s degrading faster given that whole dogs-age-exponentially-in-their-later-years thing. At approximately 18 years old, Barbara’s pretty much blind now, losing muscle mass, pottying in the house on the regular, and emoting until the CBD kicks in.
As Naz says, “I’m taking it week by week now."
Having navigated these waters three times prior with two cats and a dog in the span of a year from 2018–2019, all of whom were also geriatric and having myriad health problems at the end, I’m no better equipped for this impending loss. You never are.
In 2019, we adopted Barb from Muttville, a senior dog rescue here in San Francisco. At the time, I volunteered in the vet suite, attempting to heal after the passing of our nearly 14-year-old Boxer, Shaun. Before I knew it, I joined the cult of Chihuahua ownership. Barbara was a hot mess with an eye ulcer, ear mites, anemia, fur loss, a potato bod, mammary masses, skin tags, a respiratory infection, and a heart murmur. Given her diagnosis of malignant tumors, we thought she’d be a part of our family three years at most. We’re approaching six, with many of those issues abated thanks to love and a home-cooked diet.
Autoplay transitions to “Burn Our Way” by The Neighborly.
Naz and I have firmly asserted that Barb will be our last furry family member for a bit. Wanting to travel more and for longer periods of time unencumbered is the goal.
In the meantime, “snuggies with the nuggie” has taken priority, and admittedly, I’ve had to reacquaint myself with compassion and patience. I don’t know when it’ll be the final time we tuck her into our bed with us or serve her last peanut butter ball stuffed with her blood pressure and thyroid meds. I already miss her confident prance around the block in a tiny hand-knit sweater and her requests for belly rubs.
As Naz so beautifully wrote, “It's the unknown lasts that we miss the most, only realizing their importance in retrospect.”
Mentally, I’m preparing “for the day.” Emotionally, I’m not ready.
And damn you, Apple Music Autoplay, for hijacking my moments of peace with thoughts of Barbara being at peace.