THE GIFT

My dog, Juno, passed away earlier this year. She was 14 and in declining health. As stubborn as she could be, there was a point where she could no longer bear what was happening. It is, and was, an immense tragedy to watch her leave. When I wrote her eulogy, I was struck by all we had seen together, how her speed would leap out at you. She was a wild thing when she was young. I would joke with my partner that Juno grew into a distinguished lady in her old age. She forged her own routines in the house, catching the morning, afternoon, and evening sun, lounging on top of our furniture. We all need rituals in this lifetime. Dogs are no different.

The house is very quiet now. Things feel heavier and emptier at the same time. Old routines have fallen away, dissolving like sugar. There is less to maintain when you don’t have to be up or home at a certain hour. I’m buying picture frames to display some old photos of her. I’m realizing I have no printed photos of Juno. I have to print those too, make them real. The distance widens. I am also trying to brighten the rooms and catch the sun. Everyday is an effort to keep her close. The ritual demands a sacrifice.

I had a feeling we would lose Juno. About two years ago we had to start giving her seizure medication that some NIMBY at a coffee shop once told me was poison. It wasn’t actual poison but these are the kinds of medicines that are relentless on the body. I now notice how tired Juno was in those final photos together, her face long and white, her eyes glassy when they used to be sharp black. I started taking her out in a shoulder bag in our last year together, just the two of us. We’d run errands and visit record stores. The change I saw on these outings moved me. She was quiet as a mouse, falling asleep in my lap as we drove around San Francisco.

Animals know deeply. I think Juno knew what was happening and didn’t want to leave either. Of course, she couldn’t explain that to me, having only one word to share her entire experience. At some point, the truth materialized as we sped towards the hospital in the black of the morning. It was a strange mix of fear and comfort. No one wants to see their companion suffer. The script unfolded in familiar fashion. So there, in the emergency room, I placed my hand on her soft body and witnessed.

I’ve recently received two vases. One vase transformed with me, beginning its life as a naked dark mauve. It was the canvas, the focal point of a ceramics class I went to with my partner. I stood awkwardly while the instructor gave us a history of Heath Ceramics—how long they’ve endured, where they source their clay. One by one, each of us tentatively dipped our vases into the buckets of glaze, making them our own. No one wanted to make a mistake but we quickly found ourselves forced to make choices. I started with a pearl white base and then rotated it four times to make it seem like it had blooming leaves. It turned out less defined and more speckled than I originally intended. Still, it survived the fire in the kiln. I wiped the lip clean and set it down on a wooden tray. It has the traditional “Heath” look with the exposed lip but it’s also imprinted with my choices. The moment I removed it from the glaze, it became whole, no longer gripped by commerce. It gives me a sense of peace at work when I look at it. I’m shaken at how my hands ushered its transformation.

My partner gave me the second vase on my birthday, transformed by someone else. It is a piece of old Japanese pottery, holding gentle grays and blues with subtle swirls of copper that suggest movement. There are small hand-painted flowers that hug its pear-shaped body, rounding up towards the top. I remove it from the wooden box and noticed the certificate omits the year it was made. This vase, and its designs, are likely older than I’ll ever be—which is already older than Kurt Cobain and James Dean. The lip was repaired in Kusatau-city in August of this year, with a heavy, earthen gold that is customary for Kintsugi. I’m reminded of how beautiful things shatter. The will to repair them, to extend their life past the original offering, is a powerful presence. I turn back to the certificate, which calls the vase “The Patina of Memory.” Everything we experience leaves a mark. No matter how deep or shallow, the presence is felt long after the mark is made. I keep this vase in my home office and I think about how its form outlasts its creator, how it will probably outlast me.

A few weeks ago I adopted a new dog, Luna. Her arrival preceded the new moon. She is white with two tan spots and whispers of beige on her face and hind legs. She is fast too. It’s impossible for chihuahuas to live at any other speed. There is so much fear in her body. I feel it radiate like ripples in a lake. The rescue organization told us she came from a hoarder, along with 6 puppies. She circles the table when it’s time to eat, searching for real or imagined threats. I grieve her childhood. She appreciates the softness in our house—the blankets we keep on the couch, the mix of Brian Eno and Khruangbin I play on the turntable when it’s time to eat. She is a well of sweetness, following me around the kitchen in lock-step. Staying close. I grab my coat and we step into the cold mornings together, grasping for a private moment before the world wakes up. She darts around the yard, her ears pointing towards the airplanes in the distance. We are forming routines together. Everything old is brand new again. I have never adopted a dog before. My partner adopted Juno and I came to live with the two of them. I joined their world. Luna is different. On the day I met her, she jumped into my lap and looked through me, as if to say, “You could be my home.” I felt a shift as she fell asleep in my arms. For the first time in two years, it felt like permission for both of us to rest.

Presence is the gift—your own body, your own breath. We share presence with all beings we meet, vessels carrying old histories inside new forms. We change like the moon, holding phases for a little while, reaching for more and enduring too much. Most of our pain is from holding on for too long, never wanting something to change. This desire, of course, is inevitable, much like the gift itself. It’s in the way we witness together and separately. The gift is being here when we are tempted to move away, to follow other illusions. In this way, gratitude becomes a kind of discipline to remain here—for ourselves, for others, and for this time as it happens.