My Dog’s Critical Illness Taught Me a Mindfulness Lesson

And her recovery opened the door to more joy

I adore my dog. I’m not in a serious relationship, and I don’t have children, so my dog is it for me. She’s my most significant other at this stage of my life, and I’m content with that.

Dogs are masters at hiding pain. Their lack of emotional response to physical discomfort makes it difficult to determine what they’re feeling most of the time. Dog owners have to be sensitive to the tiniest aberrations in dog behavior. But if everything looks normal, a dog is probably fine.

My dog is aging, so last week, when she seemed to be walking a little bit slower, I didn’t think much about it. She’s bound to have a slow day here and there.

It seemed weird when she stared at me for three straight hours one day, but she’s quirky like that sometimes. And, yes, she usually doesn’t stumble when she hops into the house, but we all trip from time to time.

That’s what I thought.

You can imagine my shock and horror when my poor little dog was suddenly and violently ill. It was the night before New Year’s Eve (and her unofficial thirteenth birthday since she is a rescue and I don’t have a precise date).

I usually celebrate by giving her some of her favorite treats, taking her for an extra walk, and cuddling with her anytime she wants. This year, there was no celebration.

Like any medical emergency, I felt like it came out of nowhere. I panicked, and we drove immediately to the emergency veterinarian.

I combed my memory for anything my dog could have eaten, any symptom she showed the last few days, anything I could cling to for an answer to this horrible development in her health.

They sent us home with medications, but my dog didn’t get better. We were in the emergency veterinarian three times over the weekend. The barrage of fireworks on New Year’s Eve certainly didn’t help her. I doubted panic could be good for gastric bleeding, and she was inconsolable.

I followed all the medical instructions, but nothing made her better. And so, I watched helplessly as her tiny body went through immeasurable pain.

On the final trip to the emergency veterinarian, they sent her home with almost every stomach medicine they could prescribe to treat her for anything that could cause bleeding. Her treatment seemed more like throwing spaghetti at a wall than anything resembling healthcare. Trusting the process and accepting their reassurance felt impossible.

My dog seemed to be knocking on death’s door for five agonizing days. She continued to get sick. When she refused all food one day, I began to worry it was the end of my sweet dog’s life. I’d never seen her so unwell, and her symptoms seemed too severe for me to brush off as ordinary illness.

I’ve been in the hospital before, and I’ve been sick enough to run into a health wall where I wonder why doctors can’t be more definitive about my condition. But watching my dog get progressively worse made me feel more helpless and desperate than anything I’ve ever experienced with my body. I looked for something to blame and came up with nothing.

I felt torn up to realize just how much my dog must have been suffering in silence, and I wished I could have known earlier and done something to prevent it. But I had almost no clue.

And the veterinarians assured me that, contrary to my anxious impulses, it wouldn’t be practical for me to book a veterinary appointment every time my dog stumbles.

The brutal reality is that there was no way for me to prepare for it. My dog will inevitably suffer, and I will suffer with her. It is part of aging, and it’s natural.

I looked for someone to help me with the feelings, and I found no one.

After two or three days of fruitless searching for consolation, I realized why I felt so unexpectedly alone.

The being I turn to, the one who gives unconditional love and intangible solace when life gets me feeling helpless and in need of comfort, is my dog.

My attachment to my dog has never felt so deep. I know I am responsible for her life, of course. She depends on me. But the extent of my emotional investment in her well-being has never been more apparent than during this last week. I learned how much I depend on her.

She has often been the anchor that braces me to my optimism that everything will be okay. She’s been a steady beacon of joy for me since I adopted her. The little bumps in her health along the way were nothing compared to this.

A spiritual practice I live by is the daily recitation of the Five Remembrances of Buddhism. No one escapes illness, death, or separation from dear ones. I find comfort in knowing that resisting change and fearing death and sickness is part of being human.

I am aware my dog will not live forever, but her illness made her death seem much closer than before. It terrifies me.

I thought of the Five Remembrances while I sat in the emergency veterinary clinic. Illness is inevitable, and yet I was unprepared for it. Waiting for my dog to return safely to my arms with a professional’s promise that she would be alright gave me time to reflect on how much my dog means to me.

Isn’t that part of the beauty of being human? Getting uncomfortable and examining what scares me was a way to shine a light on what provides comfort and safety. Mindfully confronting my suffering made me appreciate the depths of my joy.

After five days, my dog turned a corner. By the seventh day, she seemed closer to her usual self. I began to thank God that this wasn’t her moment to go.

Yesterday, she ate from her bowl for the first time. She sniffed the ground for overlooked treats and barked at the mailman. She ran down the hallway. Those things — and many other daily moments I hadn’t realized I was taking for granted — disappeared when she got sick. I am delighted and immeasurably relieved to see her like this again.

As I watch my dog come back to life, all the little things that were simply part of our daily routine together have become miracles. I know that the more distance we get from the illness, the more I will slip back into our old routine.

The power of mindfulness is sitting in the present moment and realizing that contentment is here if we take the time to notice all the ways we aren’t currently suffering.

This illness broadened my perspective on what causes me to suffer and how that suffering is linked to joy. I’m writing this piece to affirm my commitment to practicing mindfulness in everyday moments with her.

I know the day my dog is gone will break my heart. Until then, our bond fills it with gratitude and joy.

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