I was working from home this afternoon, and Chris was too, and our daughter had just walked in the door from school. The phone rang, and I did not recognize the number. But I recognized the timing. It was the vet. My iPhone tells me that the call lasted nine minutes, but when the vet used words like “carcinoma” and “inoperable” and “malignant” and “metastasizing,” a switch flipped in my brain and effectively ended the conversation. There may have been the use of the word “mitosis,” and I am fairly certain that the vet uttered “canine oncologist.” I suspect there was a discussion of “palliative care” and a hope for “remission.”

But after the switch flipped, I distanced myself from being a pet owner and went into full-on lawyer mode, almost ruthlessly performing a cost-benefit analysis. It was the only way I could make it through the call. I have little memory of walking down the stairs from the study to the kitchen and staring out the kitchen window as the vet finished talking. And I thought that I had just imagined the howl — the perfectly formed “boo” followed by the perfectly formed “hoo” — until Chris and our daughter came out of nowhere to surround me as I broke down sobbing.

After I explained what I could remember, my daughter asked this question: Have you broken the news to Buddy yet? I almost started laughing, and at the mention of his name, Buddy woke up, smiled, and wanted a walk. And so it was, like almost 3,243 days before this one, I found myself leashed to a large, lumbering dog, a beast who insisted on walking a full 30 minutes, even if he managed to cover only four or five blocks in those 30 minutes, an animal who looked longingly at lap dogs scooped up and carried home by their owners, a dog whose greatest regret was my lack of a marsupial pouch.

All of I could think of was this: As long as this dog still smiles, as long as he wags his tail and gets into any number of misunderstandings about exactly whose food it is, as long as he is slightly overweight and very hairy, as long as he still nips at my chin just like a kiss and barks at his mortal enemy the mail carrier, he is Buddy.

These things seem so simple, but after the vet’s call I had been so overwhelmed with grief and what lies ahead that I forgot what lies in front of me right now (snoring at my feet, to be exact). I had sent a text to my family promising to do every damn thing on the dog’s bucket list, but when I conjured up that list, I could think of only two things that Buddy really wanted, in this order:

1. To eat more bacon, the gravity of his current diagnosis having removed the only impediment from his recent blood tests — slightly elevated cholesterol, and
2. To spend more time with his mom, because Buddy simply cannot spend enough time with his mom.

And between now and the Big Sleep, whenever that may be, everything else — the glacially paced walks, a trip to the beach and a much loved swim, rides in the convertible, visits with friends, poorly measured kibble, the chance to wear a scarf, for Buddy loves his neckwear — will be gravy. For he lives firmly in the now, and I often live anywhere but.

I have been working on kindness and forgiveness lately, which is easier said than done. A few years ago, when things seemed especially bleak, I did a yoga practice, and all I could remember — other than the fact that I really do not like yoga — was a mantra that you directed to yourself, then someone you love, then a stranger, and then someone who caused you pain. I looked it up a few days ago, and indeed I did not imagine it. It is called metta meditation:

May I be happy.

May I be well.

May I be safe.

May I be peaceful and at ease.

I have tried this in all sorts of situations, including at a gas station the other day when a jerk started yelling at another driver in the parking lot. Aha! I thought. Here is a chance to try metta meditation on  a stranger who has caused me distress! Here is a pro tip for you: Loving-kindness meditation is not particularly soothing when you use the word “asshole” as part of it. So I tried again, substituting “you” instead. I performed it, at least initially, through gritted teeth, akin to George Costanza’s father yelling SERENITY NOW! on Seinfeld episodes. But I am trying.

So as I walked Buddy this afternoon, I uttered these words to myself. I needed to hear them. I figured that Buddy qualified as someone I loved, so I directed them to him. As I ticked them off, I realized that Buddy is happy, safe, peaceful, and at ease. As long as these things remain, he is well enough.

And clearly in need of bacon. Lots and lots of bacon.

ALC