Milo
A story of companionship, joy, and the impossible task of choosing the right time.
As rosemary leaves quietly brushed against the bricks of a house outside the windy city, a frail creature was corralled from the bush by his master and taken inside to rest before what would be, unbeknownst to him, his last meal. It was sad for the master. The little guy had weakened so much that he couldn’t even chew his favorite food anymore. This meal consisted of puréed mush, far from preferred, but all that he could manage.
He made a mess of his bowl and the floor with drool – then licked it up. Slowly, patiently, meticulously. He regained some strength. Shortly thereafter, he wanted to fetch the ball, even sniff the bush once more. But after three passes he collapsed. Exhausted. Surely in pain. But his eyes remained alert.
A couple hours later his scrawny little skeleton of a body lay spooned against the master’s. Pressed against him. One of many little acts of love the guy constantly expressed to him.
His breathing was still strong – deep, steady. Almost healthy. But every breath exposed each rib and disappearing abdomen.
With every breath, air rushed in through his nose and out again, stirring a distinct scent to all corners of the room. In other words, spooning with love for the master carried with it the flush of rotten air. “I’m slowly dying,” sort of air.
Sleep refused to come. For sleep depends upon the slowing down, the stopping of the motions in the mind, the mind’s nightly flirtation with nothing and nothingness. But this time it would not comply. The mind wished to think, not slip away and lose. Or, said otherwise: to recall, to recollect.
Recollection would soon be all that’s left.
Stop thinking; sleep.
Think; live.
Thinking is a motion – restless, ceaseless.
What was there to think about?
When he arrived home for the first time, the master placed him in a shoe. The little guy was tiny, too small to climb out. He struggled – white and delicate and soft. Barely eight weeks old. At eight weeks a human baby cannot climb, can hardly move. Too helpless even to struggle. Incapable of much, except to cry and eat and shit and stare into the mother’s eyes. – To bond. The motion of the infant puppy at eight weeks is similar and different: he, too, ate and shat and stared, and even struggled with his motions, but he did not cry. That came later. Children cry from birth but later learn it is shameful to cry, especially before their peers. We’ll run to help a crying pup. But when our own kind cry, we lose consistency. We harden. We silence the heart’s motions inside us…
Another thing to think about: Foreknowledge. The master is like Prometheus. Prometheus gave fire and foresight to humankind, and for this he was punished. Zeus forbade us that latter gift. We were meant to live with hope – not the certainty of our end. And yet, the master knows the time and place the little guy will meet his fate. That knowledge is forbidden for oneself, yet we may wield it over those in our power. And when such knowledge is ours to wield, it is not stolen - it is decreed. The master did not take this knowledge; he made it so. Quietly, guiltily. A prophet’s burden, but not a prophet’s gift. The weight of knowing is heavy…
Yes, thinking is a motion. Thoughts are ineffable but also carry weight. The weight of guilt ahead of a heinous and ineluctable act.
That night, these thoughts remained in motion, circling back and forth. A dance of unrest, endless, unbroken through the night.
The little guy grew his heart, having watched and studied human beings, perhaps as well as we study ourselves. He was drawn to his master, and his master to him. He needed to be touched affectionately. The fur at the back of his head was soft and always welcomed a gentle rub. Most of the time that would suffice. Eventually, he learned to press his head into the palm of the hand, insisting on a little more, right at that spot. Don’t stop. I love you, master. Let me please enjoy.
Life is beautiful. Life is loving. Is loving beautiful? Is Beautiful loving?
Life is short. But according to which standard of measure? His life, the little guy’s, was wonderful, emotional. His life was made of loving, all-surpassing loving. And all that follows in the wake of love: I love you, master, let me please enjoy.
Let me enjoy it. Can it be only me?
The little guy was loved by his master, the family, and his master’s mother. He loved her most, in fact, and forbade another to show her affection in his presence, particularly the master’s father. Jealous he was. Very much so.
And why not? As far as he was concerned, it was only fair. The master’s mother doted on him and pampered him. Let him sit upon her lap as she conquered crosswords from the New York Times and shook her head at the idiotic editorials. Or when she lay upon the love seat in the television room, to watch a bit of Downton or a genuine classic, like Keeping Up Appearances, the little guy insisted that he snuggle right beside her. And not merely snuggle – press himself into her side. Asserting his affection, he would curl up and sleep, knowing and believing in the place he held beside his favorite.
But if, some other one might grab the mother’s attention, the little guy would growl. And if that other happened to be the father of the master, then teeth would show, the nostrils flare, the fur would bristle, and the growl transform into a jealous snarl.
He was hers and she was his.
In turn, the father of the master played the role of woman-stealer. With mock theatrics, he would express his love right in front of the little guy - half arousing her, half attacking her. The parental pair still enjoyed the sort of “tickle me and make me giggle like a teenager” affection, particularly after returning home from his day at the office.
Most evenings, the master’s mother would have the little guy on her lap. He would sense the approach of the car, barreling down the driveway, and come to attention - alert, acknowledging the creature who had infiltrated his territory. Not necessarily vicious, but certainly ready to protect his love.
Then the door opened. The father entered, and the little guy, already deep in his protect-the-damsel game, would first shift into his other role - ecstatic greeter. He had known the father’s scent from a mile away but relished the act of greeting just the same. It made the game more worthwhile, for the master’s father always played along, acknowledging the little guy’s gusto at his return.
But with the little guy, no game was ever just a game. Every match had a strategy: protection, distraction, and devotion.
The greeting was short-lived. The father would bestow forehead rubs and tickles behind the ear, all while commanding the little guy to express his joy at his (the father’s) return. And the little guy, elated, should have returned to his defense - but no. Not yet. Not quite. Ahh, right there behind the ear. Ahh. That’s it… Wait! Hold on. The father moved toward his wife. The little guy’s demeanor changed. Now his eyes lock onto the attacker. Teeth bared. Ears pressed back. Fur bristling. He growls. The father grins and moves closer. The growl deepens. He meets his opponent’s gaze – mocking. The growling becomes a snarl. Elation has transformed into fury. His heart is racing. The father can see it through the little guy’s heaving rib cage. His hand extends further towards his wife, taunting. The poor little guy is stricken. The father places his hands upon his beloved. They embrace. Overcome, the little guy barks, snarls. He takes a step forward – bristling with indignation, jealousy boiling over. Another step. Paws click against the floor. The sound of …MMMMMMM… fills the room, exaggerated. He makes it known: he is enjoying the embrace. The poor little guy nearly loses self-control. He steps between the standing parents’ legs. Pressing his head against the legs, teeth bared. About to bite.
– He does not bite. The father shifts his legs and steps away. The little guy stumbles but feels he has won. Loyalty to the family means protection, not mutiny. The father grins again. He scrunches his fingers – open, closed, open, closed – in a taunting motion to his adversary. He prolongs the poor little guy’s jealous suffering.
Regaining his footing, the little guy stands between his beloved and the disturber of the peace. His fur still bristles; eyes burn – aflame but also sad. Why must he endure such human cruelty? – No. It is for her. He must protect. He must not attack.
The father’s hand scrunches again, extending his game of mockery. He begins to laugh. Suddenly, the mother feels this teasing has gone too far. She tells him to stop. The husband grins, like an older boy whose teasing never stops because his younger siblings have yet to learn to ignore him. And so, he ignores her order and continues.
In retaliation the mother bends down to pick up the little guy. An effort to calm him and soothe the jealousy. But this is not allowed. The father steps in to halt the move. –
Oh no! What happens next? Was this an attack? To what extent should the lover defend his beloved? Attack, indeed? The game is through.
Amidst the confusion, a stern assertion quiets the little guy. He transforms from defender of his love into a guilty criminal. Come here, the father orders, taking a seat on the floor. The little guy steps forward, tail between the legs – apprehensive, nervous, expecting punishment. But no snout is struck. No punishment comes. Instead, the father points to his chest and repeats the command. The little guy climbs into his lap, places his front paws onto the father’s shoulders and presses his pounding chest against him. The poor little guy repents. He does not understand but knows that lines were crossed, somehow. And somehow, he was found to be at fault. Now let us make up for it with a forgiveness hug…
The master had sat off to the side, watching the scene unfold. He knew each move that would be made, for it had happened many times before. You see, the master, too, had tugged at the little guy’s heartstrings before. Seldom, though, for it made him feel guilty afterwards. It is in our nature to be emotionally manipulative. At times. And it causes pain. It’s wrong. It’s best not to twist the cords of love – with anyone. Especially not with his little guy.
But there were many times the master needed hugs like these. Times, when human hands were too impure, the meaning of their touch – too filled with caveats, hesitations, and unspoken conditions. When the little guy stood on his hind legs, pressing himself into the chest or neck, the power in that moment was pure. The emotion, raw. The intent, entirely clear. I love you, master. I know you’re hurt; feel better. I love you, master. I would like to play. I love you, master. Perhaps another one? I love you, master. May I enjoy your love?
Quiet companion in thought and study.
Thinking starts again and sleep recedes – again.
Concentration pulls the mind and heart tight.
Where do the souls of humankind and beast fly?
Perhaps the bond between man and beast must be reimagined.
The little guy had much to teach. No bond built on love denies this.
The master spends much of his conscious life lost in thought. And oftentimes, the little guy would trot into the study to take a seat beside the master’s wooden chair, his quiet request for attention. Nothing. Just thought. The little guy would look up, tail swaying in slow rhythm, trying to catch the master’s eye. He’d wait, then murmur a concerned hello, a kind of whistle, a wheeze and a whine. With no response, the patient beast would rise again, tail still moving in steady arcs, crouch, and launch himself upon the master’s lap.
This delightful ambush always shattered the master’s spiraling thoughts – bringing him back to his best friend. The little guy would let out a bark with glee, tail wagging excitedly, triumphant at breaking the spell that too often overtook his master. He could tell that some strange, mysterious power had captured the master, and he always tried his best to free him (the master) from its grip.
Play. The little guy would hop back to the floor, speaking insistently. The master must follow - out of the study, down the hall, down the stairs. A glance back, always making sure. They’d reach the kitchen, loop around the island, and bound outside to the green lawn. A system: tennis balls by the door, a backup under the bush. Darting in their direction, the little guy would corral the nearest, free of drool, and lay it at his master’s feet. A shrill demand. Persistent insistence. And so, the game began: throw, fetch, repeat.
Too many times to count, he tore across the lawn with lightning speed, locked onto the ball. A living lesson: the power of the mind when action follows. A joyful act, repeated without end - except for a pause, an outstretched plop beneath the shade of a garden tree. To catch his breath, to let his soul soak in the joy of motion, knowing his master had granted him this boundless affection.
But the game was only joyful if both were in tune, if they played in rhythm. The one tossing the ball with a different spin, a new direction, a longer arc. And the other: catching it on the fly, after a bounce, leaping, listening - anticipating its fall.
Create the game together - or risk disappointment. The little guy never let him down. Always ready. Go until his legs gave out. Go until exhausted. Then rest - just for a moment. Then go again. Constancy. Hearts full of joy. Together.
Can thought alone nourish the soul with joy?
To the little guy, joy was meant to be shared. It couldn’t be owned. It couldn’t be hoarded. His heart, his being – wholly his master’s. Only together could they fill their souls with joy. And it was always best to share. The sharing occurred between the two. It brought them joy. A toy was nothing without the master’s hand, tugging against his clenched jaws, resisting, playing back. Throw-and-fetch, tug-of-war, neither could be played alone.
Food and shelter. Walks after dinner. Cuddles in bed. A rub behind the ear. The words, “good boy.” To be pet, to be master. None of this was possible alone. And all else that came with these bonds. As it should be.
Somehow, the little guy always knew when to rush upstairs. When to speak, when to place the ball, the toy, even a bone sometimes, beside the master’s leg, as if it were an arm, not a leg. As though the leg might lift the object, shifting the focus of the master’s focus back to him. That he might share again. And take his mind away from sorrowful thought and solitude.
Is sadness inherent to the nature of thinking? Thinking together is an oxymoron. One thinks alone. Think for yourself. A thought is born in a single mind, one at a time. Only once a thought is fully formed can it be shared. Only once it is processed, shaped into words, can a thought be spoken. What happens then is a command: Think the thoughts you are led to think. Who leads? It cannot be another – yet thinking does not lead itself, only to more thoughts, more thinking. What sparks thought? Others. Interaction. Sharing.
The best game is saved for last. He’d find a ball inside the house, corral it between his jaws and place it in the master’s hand or by his foot. Then, he’d dash for the main staircase of the house, which had a landing halfway up. From the landing, he’d bark an order down to the staircase base, demanding the ball be hurled up for him to catch. Upon receiving the toss, the little guy would place the ball upon the foremost stair, give it a nudge with his snout, causing it to bounce back down the stairwell. His focused, insistent head would bob in tandem with the falling ball, as it made its way back toward the master’s place below. Repetere in infinitum.
This game was unlike the others. It wasn’t one he had learned; it wasn’t taught. It was his own invention, a game entirely his own. And perhaps that’s why he loved it most, even more than fetch-and-chase in the grass. It was his idea, his joy, his creation.
He took so much delight in this game that when some other commitment took the master away, the little guy was known to let out a disappointed howl. Until once, while in the middle of a catch, he yelped. His hindquarters buckled. He crumpled in a heap upon the landing’s rug. No sudden jerk had caused the rug to slide, for it stayed stationary. Nor had the ball been tossed with some peculiar, parabolic arc. In fact, that ball had been caught and then he met the floor. It was his mouth. Drooled and swollen, sore. He’d lost a tooth, a little blood, and enough adrenaline to need a break. The first time in his life.
Infinity was never meant to be. Life forbids it – outside of thought or numbers.
His end began with a cracked tooth, a swollen jaw, and a telling symptom: drool. It flowed, it stank. In weeks, he lost two kilograms, his energy, another tooth. His once-white legs faded to a discolored taupe: as he lay on his cushion, the drool spilled, dried, and stained his fur. His decline came swiftly. And it was crushing.
He'd glare up at his master in frustration but would always allow his legs and jaw to be cleansed. He knew the act was one of care. Still, he’d wince, and more than once, he let out a yelp when the cloth brushed against a particularly painful spot along his gums. Most often he managed to hold back and let what the master felt needed to be done be done. The little guy was fighting – fighting as hard as he could.
Life was to be filled with joy, not disintegration or decay. It was against his outlook; against the way he’d led his life. For a while, a little aspirin in peanut butter and lots of love provided him with some aid against the disease.
However, the stink refused to stay contained. Mounting proof of his decay. Eating away at him. Chipping at his weight, his poise, his strength, his confidence – but never his master’s affection.
A couple months went by. The bones began to show. He could not eat by himself. He needed help. He could not jump into his master’s arms. He could not court the little one-year-old girl pup who’d grown so attached to him.
Worst of all, he understood. It shouldn’t have been this way. But it was. He’d look into his master’s eyes, communicating that he knew. Inevitable.
The master tried. He took the little guy to a vet named Barksdale – a storybook name, yet real as could be. Canine periodontitis, disease. Incurable. That was that.
At least the veterinarian showed she cared. Not enough, of course. But something. The little guy looked up, eyes in pain and full of trust.
An antibiotic medication was prescribed by Barksdale, to be administered to the loving skeleton. This helped. He regained some weight. Some energy, too. The stink and drool dissipated. Until the medication ran out. Then the disease returned – worse than before, spreading fast, consuming more.
The little guy held on. He understood. Most days, he would retreat into his bed, sleeping through the ache, hiding from the smell. Pets sleep most of the day anyway because that’s what they do; his was with a purpose. It was intentional.
Apparently, intentionality requires a mind, the human mind. And apparently no other being besides humans has a mind. Therefore, no other being but the human being is capable of intentionality. This is a grave logical and metaphysical fallacy.
He must have known the disease would consume him. Nevertheless, we all put up a fight. The body will fight, the soul as well, to curtail the diminution, to prevent the diminuendo to death. And so, he did. He fought with all his might, with all the love held in his heart.
He did his best. And more than that.
It is tempting to say it was his duty to his master. A duty that expresses itself as – and through – love. Sleep to muster up the strength to be there when his master returned from the focus at the desk, or from errands beyond the territory’s domain. Strategize how to hold on. Speak when he returns or wakes you up with a rub behind the ears. For as long as possible, be ready to chase the ball. Offer it and even when the strength is spent, show you still would if only you could. He did his best.
This was intentional. This was love.
But while he slept, one day, in early Fall, as the rosemary leaves quietly brushed against the bricks of a house outside the windy city, the decision was made. It was not an easy one. The vote was democratic, five to one.
Barksdale was called again. An appointment was set.
Morning came. The master and his brother left the house, holding the little guy close to the heart. It was a short drive. He was weak but alert. He showed no worry, only pain and trust. The appointment was for nine.
They waited in the sanitized room until the little guy was gently lifted from the master’s arms for the preparatory injection. Upon being taken out, the master was asked if the rest of the process should occur in their (the master’s and his brother’s) presence or completed entirely in the other room. The master insisted that he hold the little guy until the very end.
So let it be done.
Not fully sedated, still aware, the little guy was gently placed back into his master’s arms. He had a little catheter placed just above the stifle joint of his right leg, the one he’d used for shaking hello.
The master looked into his eyes. Somehow the little guy knew. His loving eyes revealed it.
Barksdale quietly returned with a tray on which a syringe was placed. She looked at me. I looked back. Then at him. Then I nodded, held him closer, and whispered, “You are such a good boy, Milo. Such a good b –” – And it was done.
Life left. He was limp. Eyes shut. Heavy.
The master laid him on the table in the center of the room. They wept.
This ache will not leave. An immaterial throb. So heavy. Sure, external responsibilities push the ache to the background, but the guilt remains, eating at my mind.
Perhaps it was necessary. Perhaps it had to be done. Perhaps it made me more of a man – to hold a beloved being through the final transformation.
What makes it feel like murder is time. It felt too early. When the time is right, all must pass. But death too soon is robbery. To rob life is to commit murder. And I robbed him, even if his end was near.
What is cruelty? Cutting short the time deserved – turning life into harm. Too soon was cruel. Had he lived too long – too long to wag his tail, show affection, express joy, play – even for just one pass or two – that, too, would have been cruel. Life is forgiving when it ends at the right time. But growth, growth happens when forgiveness is impossible.
Growth carries a heavy, heavy price. I so wish I could rupture space-time, conjure his presence. And then bend down, hold him close, and offer him the hug he deserves…
A lifetime of love in his eyes.