Manu

Fisher was in a very emotional state; it was hard for him to see Manu like this, he said. Getting old, declining. I asked gently what it brings up for him, as he sat on the rocker with Manu in his lap, tears streaming down his face. "He's just always been there," he said, "for as long as I remember."

It's true, and if not Manu, before that it was Joey, when Fisher was a baby, until he was toddler-age when Joey passed. Then Pixie, always accompanying him in his carriage. When we adopted Manu, he became Fisher's loyal companion, his Familiar, the one constant for him as he moved between households, the one consistent sense of security. And Manu is obviously very connected to Fisher—he was so happy to see him and to be with him, you could tell...even through the veil of his foggy eyes, and his ears which no longer hear his boy's voice, and what seems like confusion of an also foggy mind.

This is the deal we all sign up for by being in these bodies, I say to Fisher, that eventually our bodies will decline, and we will leave them.

And this is the deal, I say to myself, in loving these creatures, in taking responsibility for their lives: that we will love them, and they will love us, but still they will have to leave us.

Over and over again throughout our lifetime of loving animals—what it looks like to fully invest one's heart and soul in another being, knowing that you will have to let them go. Furthermore, knowing that they are completely dependent on your compassion, your strength, your care of them until the very end—and you may even need to decide for them when that will be, when they'll leave their body. And if you're fortunate, you'll get to hold them, to comfort them, to let your tears fall on their fur as they go—and it will be peaceful, and loving, this release. That is always the luckiest thing.

Like holding my dad's hand as he slipped away....

Ah, these bodies. This Life.

I assured Fisher that I would talk with him before ever having it come to that. I assured him that right now I think Manu is doing all right. He requires lots of special care, but I'm totally fine with that, and while he sleeps, mostly, I do think he is also reasonably happy when he's awake. Quality of Life, that is always the question, and I think Manu's is fine. Most importantly, I think he feels loved.

I think of my friend Dolores in that "Retirement Home" at 100 years of age. I think of her sitting slumped in that wheelchair, a shell of herself—how I didn't even recognize her at first. That was no way to live, nor to spend the last days of one's life. I had not been able to be there for her...I could not move back to Wisconsin to care for her, as months earlier her son had asked if I could.

But I am here for Manu. I'm here for my other beloveds as they age, and their bodies and minds begin to decline.

Man, I am grateful to be here.