The Crippling Pain of Impermanence
Two years ago, while out of town on a business trip, I received a call from my friend who was looking after Abby, one of my two dogs (back before Jacques joined the pack). I’ve been fortunate enough over the years to have a circle of generous, dog-loving friends who happily welcome my furry pack into their homes when I have to go out of town and my dog-sitter isn’t available. I’d grabbed a danish and a coffee and was heading into a conference room at my hotel when the call came through — Abby was not doing well and there was a very real concern that we were entering life-or-death territory.
I adopted Abby in 2014, a few weeks after little Lola had passed away. Cabo, my golden retriever, took Lola’s passing hard; you could see the energetic shift as she lost her enthusiasm for playing and walks. I hadn’t expected it but on the day that Lola passed — when the beautiful souls from Peaceful Passages came to my house to user her across the Rainbow Bridge — Cabo gave a very clear sign of distress. As we circled around Lola, holding her while the sedatives took hold, I called Cabo over. I wanted her to understand.
Cabo slowly walked over, sniffed at Lola — only moments away from passing — and emitted the saddest little cry that I’ve ever heard a dog make. It was unlike any noise that Cabo had ever made before or since. As soon as she made the sound, she turned and retreated to the living room, where she stayed until everything was said and done. I took her for a walk later that afternoon, which was the first time in her life that she’d ever been a solo dog. Her heart wasn’t in it. I took her to her favorite trail and we’d barely arrived when she paused, unwilling or incapable of moving.
As the days wore on, Cabo and I grieved together, a little communion of sorrow. I soon realized that my plan to spoil the ever-loving-shit out of Cabo as a sole dog for the rest of her days was a terrible option. She needed company. And so I set out to find her a friend. Enter Abby.
I’ll save Abby’s arrival story for another day but when I adopted her from a Mexican rescue group, they estimated her age to be four. On her first vet visit, the day after I took her home, the vet said that she was at least 6. Which puts her at around 15 or 16. Thankfully, as a smaller dog, she’s enjoyed some longevity though not without some hurdles.
On a trip to Ireland a few years back, my dog-sitter reported that Abby had a seizure in front of her. Thankfully, she knew what to do, filming the incident, leaving her alone for a few minutes and taking her to the vet. To my knowledge, she hasn’t had any seizures since.
Which brings us back to 2023. My friend looking after Abby reported that she was lethargic and uninterested in food or water. A rush trip to the vet revealed that she was in kidney failure, which to me, sounded like I needed to get on a plane. The vet said that she’d been stabilized however, and that she’d be OK until I returned. The prognosis was that she had chronic kidney disease, which can’t be cured or reversed but, with dietary changes, can be slowed down.
I asked for the bottom line. Were we talking weeks? Months?
To my immense annoyance, the vet said that she’d seen dogs with this condition last two years. Which sounded like a cop-out to me. It sounded like the vet was citing the high range of a statistic rather than going on record with a scientifically-guided assessment of Abby’s condition. I pressed - I could take the bad news. “We really can’t ‘say,” the vet insisted, again citing the two year mark.
Two years later, it’s New Year’s Day and I’m staring at Abby, napping peacefully in her favorite spot. I just stopped to take this picture and she opened her eye to watch me.
After getting her on a prescription diet specifically designed to address kidney disease, Abby made a monumental comeback. In a matter of days, her appetite returned and then her energy. Walking three or four times a day was not only not a problem, but she would come bouncing down the stairs at the first shake of a leash. Curious, alert and energetic, Abby was back on track.
Then, a day or two before Christmas, while walking the three dogs in the morning, I felt a curious pull on Abby’s leash. Normally she either walks next to Zoe and Jacques or she moves back and forth behind me, which requires constant passing of her leash from one hand to the other. But on that morning, as the other two trotted purposefully forward, Abby lingered a bit. She wasn’t stopping to sniff or trying to pull me towards something — she was simply walking slower than the other two. Like that was all she had in the tank.
That afternoon’s walk brought the same cadence — I had to pull Zoe and Jacques back so as not to drag Abby, walking slowly behind us.
On Christmas day, we visited our friends who have Bodie, their playful yellow lab, and a fenced-in backyard, for a holiday brunch. Abby normally loves these visits, patrolling the perimeter of the yard and periodically cruising past the humans for treats or scratches. But on Christmas day, she remained largely immobile, tail between her legs and shaking. She’s had this minor shaking condition since her kidney failure, and it seems to come and go without any lingering distress. Normally a treat or a comfy seat arrests the tremors. While she ate her specially-cooked Christmas treats — muffins, baked ham, treats — she wasn’t interacting with any of the people or dogs. I took her home and finally dipped into her bottle of Gabapentin, which did the trick — she eased into a long, restful slumber and when she awoke, while still a little sluggish, the anxiety was gone.
Since then, she’s largely recovered, not walking as slowly as she did last week but. not as fast as she walked a month ago. Her appetite is as strong as ever and when we visited our friends again yesterday, she was back to patrolling the yard, following the dogs around as they played and begging for treats. Still, I can’t escape the thought that this might well be her final New Year’s Day.
One of Buddhism’s central principles is that all suffering comes from attachment. At least emotional suffering. Attachment to an idea not based in reality. Attached to an idea that things should be different than they are right now. Attached to people, places and of course, to dogs.
The Universe lacks nothing in the way of cruelty but one of its greatest injustices is the gross disparity in lifespans between humans and dogs. As a friend once said to me, the day after losing his pup, “When you bring a dog home, there’s a 99% chance that you’re going to outlive him.” Which we all know when we invite a dog into our lives, but as those final moments approach, it’s hard not to spiral into those profound waves of sadness and anxiety that come with saying goodbye to our furry spirit guides.
Of course it’s worth it. To have the experience of sharing your life with a dog, particularly a rescue dog, is to access levels of emotion and awareness that are otherwise unavailable and that radically transform the way one views themselves and the world around them. But that doesn’t mitigate the wholesale devastation one experiences when they pass.
My parents didn’t let me have a dog, citing the busy street on which we lived as the reason. My father later conceded that, having lost a dog when he was younger, he had no desire to experience that kind of loss ever again. So I didn’t get my first dog until well into adulthood. Since then I’ve owned and bade farewell to three dogs. Though the inevitability of the loss feels more apparent each time, the depth of the loss is the same. It simply doesn’t get any easier. Ever.
And so, at 15, 16 or maybe even 17 years right now. Abby is well into her final innings. Perhaps on New Year’s Day, 2026, I’ll post another photo of her and tell stories about our adventures in 2025. Or perhaps on that day, I’ll look over at her spot on the couch where she is right now and it will be empty.
If circumstances allow — and they don’t always — the final clause of our contract with our dogs is to help them pass as peacefully and as beautifully as possible. I don’t think they get hung up on attachments like we do. It’s often said that when they’re ready to go, they know it and that’s why we don’t see emotional agony and distress when it’s their time. They’re ready. That time for Abby is coming and it will likely be exponentially harder on me than it is for her. But my responsibilities are clear and when the time comes, I’m committed to fulfilling them as best as I possibly can.
In the meantime, I’m grateful as hell that we greeted 2025 together. On that cold March day, back in 2023, I was hoping that she could hang on for just a week. Just long enough to be with her one last time. But now, just like the vet said, we’re closing in on two years. Maybe we’ll make it and maybe we won’t. But thanks to Abby, I fully understand what people mean when they say that every day is a gift.