By Jeffrey Bell-Hanson

Chloe is dying.

Of course, we all are. But it’s become clear that Chloe’s time is drawing near. It seems to be something in her liver.

Chloe is our dog, or we are her humans. Since less than forty-eight hours after her arrival, who belongs to whom has not been entirely clear. We thought that going to the shelter and fetching her made the initiative ours. We were going to take charge and be good caretakers: no table scraps for this one, and she would have her own bed in her own special place in the house, just like the books said it should be. We had been far too permissive with our previous, beloved canine companions. But after putting her in her bed in that special place on the second night and retiring to our own bed, she stole the initiative from us. Not fifteen minutes later her furry chin plopped onto the bench seat at the foot of our bed. She looked each of us in the eye, and in a flash had occupied the territory at the foot of our mattress from which she would capture and hold our hearts.

I was taught early on to believe in an afterlife. The nature of it is less clear than it was when I was a child, and my tolerance for that uncertainty has grown even as my faith in its existence has deepened. Maybe it will be a place where we will meet our loved ones–including our animals. Maybe it will be the colorful painting come to life that Robin Williams and his dog romped through in What Dreams May Come. Like many others losing beloved animals, I have taken comfort in the simple image of crossing the rainbow bridge, from a poem by Paul Dahm. Perhaps it’s simply a remerging of our substance with the universe from whence we came. What I have learned about science gives me hope. If matter and energy are preserved, then how could that spark that defines our beings be lost?

Chloe came to us, and we to her, several months after the passing of another dog rescued from a shelter, Sassie. We thought we had had enough of the pain of separation and would wait awhile before starting that journey again. (It was, perhaps coincidently, around the time that my father began his nearly year-long journey out of this life.) Then we saw Chloe’s picture on the shelter website. She was looking off to her right. Returning to the picture the next day, her gaze seemed to have shifted. Had they changed the picture? She was now looking directly into the lens of the camera. She had seen us. Since that day she has never stopped watching and listening to us intently, waiting to see what we would do.

She is waiting still; hanging on to the spark of life that defines her. Even as we have claimed to be her caretakers these past twelve years, she has taken care of us; held us in her gaze and her heart and kept us from losing ourselves in our own crap. Now it’s time for us to take care of her. In all likelihood, we will have to make the decision to send her off on the rest of her journey–not when we’re ready, but when she is. It’s time for us to really watch and listen.