cw: death
author's note: this tinyletter was written as a form of processing these thoughts over the course of a week that passed too quickly. it made the writer think a lot about obituary columnists and how surreal it is to work on an inevitable-but-uncomfortable piece of writing; it made the author also want to start a draft of their own obit, though now is far from the right time.

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after weeks of worsening symptoms, i had a panic attack about the petsitter being able to support mina while we were out of country. c. travels often for work and sometimes i'm lucky enough to join him for a few days at a time. mina has always been the primarily reason i've come back early or not gone at all. i have never not been aware of her terminal diagnosis and condition. but sometimes we can get used to things deteriorating around us.

i made the decision to put mina down this week. i'm writing this to hopefully not have to talk about it at all when i'm visiting the states over the holidays. i have already anticipated that returning "home" will be good, tough, and bittersweet. there's a part of me that half expects mina and luna to be waiting for me back there as though none of us ever left. i can't imagine not expecting to hear these soft creatures, clip clap of their nails on the fir floors, in a house that i still see in many dreams. home is where your ghosts live.

a friend i saw before moving away told me she thought mina wanted to be here with me through the move. i still think she was right. there are many ways that having a creature at home has given me purpose through a chapter of uncertainty and otherness. there was a time in my life when i had 5 chihuahuas under my care. i was in my early twenties and hadn't done very much living yet; other than the worry that comes with innocence (what will a puppy get into that might cause them harm?), i didn't think about mortality and impending grief really at all. i hadn't lost anyone or any animal yet. mina is the last of her pack, preceded by molly and lola and malokhai and luna. i always suspected she'd be the tenacious one to outlast them all.

i read this article with mimi o'donnell where she talks about the process of grieving (her late husband phillip seymour hoffman) and how, after tragedy, her children approach life (and death):

They had their hearts set on a French bulldog, and after some research we found a breeder and picked out a puppy... The moment we made the decision, Cooper said, “She’s going to die. Dogs don’t live very long, so we’re going to see her die.” In her birth and in her coming to us, we were also mourning her death. Something about that felt right, knowing that everything you meet or love is going to die. I was in awe of my kids that they were able to hold both things in their heads at the same time. That’s who they are now.

there is no perfect or even comfortable way to say goodbye. however in the 8 months since her hospitalization, i've truly savored every moment possible with her, mourning a little bit along the way and staying realistic (about her level of comfort and what compassion looks like). if this past year of grief and loss has taught me anything, it's to acknowledge that our time on earth is finite, so you better savor every moment you can.

</3,
rhienna