On Death

I had to put my dog down today. His name is Joey—don’t make me employ the past tense just yet. We got him from a flea market when I was twelve. Twelve. That doesn't even sound like a real age. How can someone be only twelve? And yet there they are, twelve year-olds, scurrying all about. Totally unaware of the fact that being born in 2010 is simply an absurd proposition. But nevertheless, I was twelve. And fifteen years later he’s gone.

~

 I think about death a great deal. Or maybe I don’t. What’s a healthy amount of morbid contemplation? The stoics thought death was utilitarian—that it put things in perspective—memento mori and all that. Maybe there's something to that when all is well. But on days like today (and for those reading who are inclined towards depression) memento vita may be a more appropriate adage.

 I was recently accosted by an Instagram ad that proposed to sell me a large poster covered with 4,000 or so small squares. Each square represented a week of life. Upon reception of the poster, the recipient is meant to fill in a square for each week of life lived thus far. And then, upon the completion of each following week, the darkening of yet another square. I passed.

 Death isn't very poignant when you’re young. It can’t be. You (usually) haven’t lost enough yet. You still look forward to your birthday instead of meeting it with indifference, or worse, dread. The typical procession of death intensifies with age. 

The first you hear of death might be about someone you’ve encountered in literature or film. You may feel a soft discomfort or confusion in the fact that the person you are in some capacity interacting with is no longer present on this earth. If you are fond of this person, you may be met with disappointment or sorrow at the prospect of never making their acquaintance. 

I am publishing this piece on December 15th, the ten year anniversary of Christopher Hitchens’ death. I never met Hitchens, but each year when the day rolls around, I find myself missing him. I know that sounds pitiful and rather ridiculous, but I can’t help it. And not only that, but I’m resentful of the fact I’ll never get to meet him. I’m annoyed that some day I’ll exhaust his writing and recordings. Death has upset me, permanently and thoroughly, and I never even knew the man.  

 Now, the first death you experience firsthand is typically that of a family pet or a grandparent. You may not be old enough to understand. Once middle-aged, you have to face the death of your parents. The very people who gave you life. And you often have to care for them like children while they’re doing the dying: a horribly cruel reversal of roles. This is referred to by some as the circle of life. Except, it isn’t circular. You never get to go back to where you started. If anything, life is parabolic. You return to the plane at which you began—the plane of nonexistence—but not to the same point.

 Alas, you haven’t yet reached the end. Now you must watch your contemporaries, your friends, and perhaps your spouse—if you are blessed (cursed?) with longevity—die also. A selection from Vincent Bugliosi’s brilliant book, Divinity of Doubt.

How do you say the final good-bye to the love of your life? How can you do it when you have become a part of each other’s life, and in the process a part of each other, for forty, fifty, sixty years? You’re losing your lifetime partner, with whom you’ve gone through everything together, the highs, the lows, the happiness, the tears, the memories (oh, those old photographs). And now one has to leave the other behind. How do you, how can you, say the last good-bye? And how are you going to be able to go on without him or her? There are no words.  

 And as if that’s not enough, then you too must face death.

~

 When my grandparents died, folks whom I did love and cherish, I remember feeling pain, but it wasn't quite so ominous. The glory and bloom of youth seemed resistant to the encroaching gloom. You are too full of hope, too foolish, too selfish at that age. Time still moves at a crawl.

But as the years go by, I can begin to sense it—death—looming there in the distance. It sneers at me and I sneer back. I hear it murmur in moments of silence, catch glimpses of it in the off-white grain of my parents' hair, and find myself thinking about it at red lights. It is entirely unpleasant. 

So this time it was different. Death appeared as a harbinger of things to come. Like the first drop of rain from a storm that has only just begun to form overhead. It was accompanied by the overwhelming desire to go back. To preserve the status quo. The constant nagging that it will never be like it was. That nothing in life will ever be like it once was, as that is not the nature of time. 

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,

A small unfocused blur, a standing chill

That slows each impulse down to indecision.

Most things may never happen: this one will,

And realization of it rages out

In furnace-fear when we are caught without

People or drink. Courage is no good:

It means not scaring others. Being brave

Lets no one off the grave.

Death is no different whined at than withstood. 

— Phillip Larkin, Aubade (31-40)

~

 Death is supposed to be natural. But it doesn't feel natural. Far from it. It feels like the most unnatural thing in all the world. 

Natural is walking in the door and being greeted by a wagging tale. It is having a friend to talk to who won’t judge you or interrupt or give unwanted advice. It is the constant companion, the sharer of sweet apples and terrible secrets. 

Unnatural is the slack of the jaw post-mortem. The horrible, unfamiliar formlessness of the creature in your arms that makes you silently swear never to use the cliché "dead weight" again—ever. The placing of something you love and adore into a dark hole in the ground and covering it with mud and rock. That is unnatural.

What is it that’s so utterly distressing about the death of a pet? Is it the special torture of watching something die that came into existence after you? Is it the blatant innocence of these creatures that makes their demise especially cruel? Is it that they don’t know what’s happening or why they can’t move about in the way in which they always have? I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet. If you know, tell me, or maybe don’t. I’m not sure I want to know. 

~

I can’t conclude like this. It would be an insult to his memory. So here’s a bit about Joe. Part shih-tzu, part something else, he looked like an ewok. He was shockingly well-mannered. He hardly ever barked. He wouldn’t crawl under beds or adventure into places he shouldn’t be. He nearly always wished to be near you. He slept in my bed for many years, in the curve of my legs, and would never wake me before I awoke naturally. Well, there was one exception to that rule. 

One morning I awoke to a series of continuous whines and sobs. As I cleared my vision and peered over the top of the comforter, I was horrified to see that the entire bed was covered in vomit and shit. The poor creature must have eaten something that disagreed with him and he had effectively cleared the bed of any place to lie down. As he was too small to jump from the bed, he had resorted to waking me. I let out a scream of “moooooooooooooom” and managed to somehow slip out from the duvet and crash onto the floor below without dumping the whole mess. I will never forget that as long as I live.

What is there to learn from pets, from dogs—from Joey? That everything is interesting if you'll only let it be. That when the person you love comes through the door, you have an opportunity for joy. That everyone likes to be greeted with a smile. That each new day is a chance for excitement. That routine can be a pleasure. And that nothing in the world is better than steak. 

Oh, and that you should never miss a chance for a good hump.