The Agreement

“This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year’s threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath.” - Margaret Atwood

So many people have said, “You gave her a good life,” which is a lovely sentiment, and a kind one, but I keep having to resist the urge to say, “No, no, you’ve got it backwards. She gave us a good life, we were just doing our job.” 

We’ve known for years, intellectually and in our minds, that Tilda would not be with us forever. Two weeks ago we understood it in our bodies, thanks to a sudden, terrifying series of events that had us confronting the possibility we could lose her at any moment. An issue with her heart that the vets managed to assess and deal with and stabilize, the caveat being that it could happen again—in a day, a week, a couple of months—and we should be prepared. So we brought her home and proceeded to give her extra love, attention, and, of course, treats. We kept a close eye on her; she was rarely at home alone. We stood still and fixed our attention in all the moments when Tilda offered us all her sweet Tilda-isms. Every morning our breath held until we could confirm her behavior was normal, every evening the same prayer: Thank you for the gift of this day. For two beautiful weeks.

We brought Tilda home in August 2010 when she was eight weeks old. Can I tell you? She was a nightmare as a puppy. (There is a reason puppies are so cute.) She was the topic of searing arguments between my husband and I and the source of tremendous anxiety. I shed buckets of tears that first year until I reached a point of deciding we simply couldn’t handle her and needed to find her a new home. As I felt the gravity of that decision wash over me and thought about all the details that would need to be managed in order to facilitate such a transition, I looked at Tilda and decided I did not want to spend my remaining time with her—which I believed in that moment would be a few weeks, tops—in such a state. Right then and there I said, “OK, Tilda, for the rest of our days together all I am going to do is enjoy you.” 

By the end of that day I knew:  She was our dog, and that was that. My husband and I never argued about her again. Without having to discuss it, we both understood she wasn’t going anywhere. 

I don’t think we were aware the day we brought her home that we were, in that instant, signing a contract. Whether the contract was with Tilda or each other or God (maybe all three), the terms were simple and straightforward. Our job was to care for her, protect her, and love her with all of our hearts. In return, and if we were willing to receive her in this way, she would teach us what it is to love unconditionally, to be fully and completely present, and to show up, day in and day out, with a joyful, playful, sensitive heart. And then one day we will find ourselves on a path of loss and grief and tears, all of which will be amplified in direct proportion to our willingness to follow the first two terms of the agreement. 

The deeper the love, the more willing we are to let her in, the more painful the loss will be. Receive the joy—allow it to move in and through our bodies like water at every possible opportunity—and the grief that follows will be unavoidable. Love, love, love, with everything you’ve got, and let there be no illusions that such openness and vulnerability will eventually be the source of tremendous heartache.

But there is something else, which is the constellation of moments that such love and presence creates, one after another, that will never, ever fade away. It is the unshakable, unwavering judgment that whatever the experience of grief is, it is absolutely worth it. There’s something about that conviction, the surety. How often do we have this in life? That deep knowing, that profound willingness to take it all, to let it bring us to our knees—willingly, stoically, fiercely.

There is no trying to resist what has just taken place, either yesterday or over the past eleven and a half years. There will be a Tilda-shaped hole in our hearts for the rest of our lives, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. On this winter solstice, we released this sweet soul out of our lives and out of our care. We told her we were going to be OK, even though I’m not sure we entirely believed it. But as the days now begin their slow journey out of the darkness, we, too, will be looking for the light—continuing to honor our agreement, always holding on to her love.