Coyote is sleeping now, and I’m resting more easily as I watch her draw slow breaths in then let them out in a puff that moves the bits of hair clinging to the cushion on her bed.

I’ve been struggling for weeks now with what to feed her. She’s always been a tad finicky about food, clearly communicating what she doesn’t want or her body doesn’t need but only getting me to understand what she does need with great difficulty, if at all. Now, as the renal failure incrementally shuts down the rest of her systems because of the toxins building up in her body, I find it harder and harder to navigate the path between allowing her to die on her terms and simply giving up on her.

Months ago, when it became clear that this was the last leg of her journey, I committed to allowing her to choose her own way. Sachi, the Golden Retriever we lost to cancer over two years ago, had no such choice. Her final diagnosis came at a crisis point, and the only clear path was to end her suffering as quickly as I could. With Coyote, I’ve had the luxury of time, a double-edged sword that has forced me to surrender by tiny degrees to her death.

Several weeks ago, she started refusing to allow me to give her the subcutaneous fluids — electrolytes — that had been flushing her system over the course of several weeks. Rather than hold her down to administer them, I set them aside, offering them to her now and again, in case she’s changed her mind. I’ve gotten a clear “no” every time. Although they provided her relief while she took them, she will no longer come, lie down quietly, and patiently wait for them to drip into her body. She is done with that.

The food has been harder. At first, it was a matter of hand-feeding her. Sometimes it would take a couple of tries, holding a morsel out to her to take and mouth and spit out — holding it out again so she could repeat the process until her appetite had been primed and she could chew and swallow it. And the next one. And the next. Lately, though, even that hasn’t worked. She still comes to the bowl when I call her, but she merely sniffs the food, then turns her head and walks away  — only to return after I’ve cleaned up, looking for something…else.

I’ve moved from canned dog food to human food. Roasted chicken, pot roast with gravy, lamb. I’ve tried anti-nausea drugs, antacids. But for several days, the most I could get her to take was a mouthful or two before she walked away. Was this the last throes of the disease claiming her life, the final destination — refusing nourishment as she prepares to leave us? I agonized. She still wants to take walks. She still wags her tail and smiles at me when she sees me. She still has life in her. But what else could I do? Where was the line drawn between letting my dog go and starving her out?

Then, yesterday, she took a treat from the mailman’s hand. And another. And another. And looked for more. This is a dog who rarely takes food from anyone’s hand. When I asked what they were, Blaine told me, “Salmon.”

As we slowly continued down the street, a neighbor stopped us to pet Coyote and ask after her. I told her about Coyote’s long fast and about the strangeness of her taking the mailman’s salmon treats.

“Cat food,” Mary Lou told me. “Give her cat food. Cats are finicky eaters, so they make it extra-stinky. I did that with my Patsy, and it bought us a little more time.” I dropped Coyote at home and set out to buy cat food. Salmon, three cans of it.

Coyote licked the bowl clean after the first can and ate half of the next. This morning, she ate the rest.

Deep gratitude has buoyed me. I can accept Coyote’s decline. I can accept it when she clearly communicates that she doesn’t want or doesn’t need something. I won’t force anything on her. But the fear of missing something, of misunderstanding drives my pain and angst.

We are doing the best we can, Coyote and I. For now, cat food.

Tonight, my Better Self has fled me.

I’m tired and frustrated and — yes — even resentful of my terminally ill Coyote. I’m cleaning up several messes a day — urine, vomit, feces — from everywhere in the house, even the porch. Despite my best efforts, putrid bodily waste is embedded in the carpeting, seeped into the wood, soaked into the grout between the tiles. After weeks of this, it feels impossible to keep up with cleaning the filth from the floors, washing the dirty rags, and I’m not sure how much longer I can continue.

But I shatter under the weight of what it would mean not to continue. 

The burden of Coyote’s care robs Bodhi of meaningful play time with me, steals the space I might create for caring for myself. Relief from that burden, however, means never seeing her smile in that way that huskies do; never again watching her curl into an “O” while she sleeps, with her nose buried into the end of her tail for warmth. Yes, the time I spend crouched next to her bowl, feeding her one piece of baked chicken at a time — and, at the start of a meal, re-feeding her the same piece again and again until she can get her mouth and tongue and throat coordinated — could be spent doing yoga in the morning or reading in the evening. But not crouching there, patiently helping her swallow the last kind of food she can stomach, would also mean missing the uncharacteristically demonstrative way she leans her head into my chest when she can eat no more, an apology and a surrender. She knows it hurts the heart she feels beating through my t-shirt to see the weight melt from her frame. I can see the structure of her body too clearly now, the skeletal scaffolding that was once hidden by muscle and flesh and her thick, still-beautiful, white pelt.

And, yet, she’s in no pain. So I can’t simply “dispose” of her for my convenience.

She still finds pleasure in lying in the sunbeam that warms that one spot on the living room floor. She still wants a belly rub if I’m passing by. She still begs for walks, even if all she can manage is halfway up the block before her weakened, clumsy limbs betray her, and we have to turn back. She still owns a quality of life that keeps me in this holding pattern with her.

Still, I hate myself for gating her in the kitchen, where the tile is easier to clean, but where she can’t watch the squirrels from the windowed front door. I hate the disease that is slowly wasting her away, stealing the comical nimbleness and focused stealth she used in her play, so long ago. I hate the brevity — only 11 of her 13 or 14 years — of the time we’ve had together. 

It’s exhausting to keep trying for her. It’s anguish to understand what it means to stop.

My dog is dying.

As reasons for launching a blog go, I suppose it’s no better or worse than any other. As many creative types will attest, life-changing events — falling in love, leaving a relationship, contracting or beating a disease, or losing a beloved being — are often accompanied by bursts of creative energy. And although my Facebook friends — heck, my friends, family, and coworkers in general — have all been incredibly supportive and encouraging as I walk with my old girl on this long, painfully certain path, all of that energy needed someplace to go. Y’know, where it’s not jamming up everyone’s news streams.

So, does that mean that this blog will be a series of morose and maudlin meanderings down memory lane? Nah. That would be boring. And death is only one part of life. One of the hardest, most vulnerable and intimate parts, yes. But one of the smallest.

What you — whoever “you” are — will read here reflects my own, personal view on the crazy variety of life. Some of it will be imported over from a blog of the same name, which used to be hosted elsewhere, on a different platform. Some of it will be new. And some of it will be things I’m revising and moving over from Facebook — the bits that made people laugh or cry or think a little. You might say that Facebook was my test market, and my friends were all taste-testers.

Whatever you might say, I say those friends are some of the best humans walking the planet. I’m grateful to them for allowing me to indulge in my small conceits.