3:18

That is a can of cat food.

Over the past couple of months, I would hide that can in various bags in my kitchen, and every couple of days, Taylor would find it, and bring it into my bedroom, where she would continue to work on opening it.

Cancer is like this can. No matter how often you think its put away where no one can find it, it shows up on your bed.

September 25 is my birthday.

Why does it matter? Well on September 26 my dog Billie was diagnosed with cancer.

Seems the can landed in her bed.

Ten years ago, I was sitting in my therapist’s office. High. Not a normal high, but a classic Micah high. At the time, I was doing so many drugs at such a high volume that my drug dealer would call me to make sure I was still alive. Then sell me more.

“Get a dog.” My therapist told me. So I did in October of 2005. I decided to be sober in April of 2006.

Not a coincidence.

So many people think of their pets as part of their family. Not me. I became a member of hers. She demanded goodness. So I became good. She demanded caring. So I cared. She demanded happiness. So I tried.

I never went to any twelve step program, rather I spent a year at home with my three cats, Taylor and that little dog Billie. I woke when she wanted to wake. I walked when she wanted to walk, and when I cried she let me hold her just a bit too tight.

At the age of one, she got her hip replaced. Never complained or whined, just knew I would never ask her to do anything wrong.

Before I took her to the vet to get her hip replaced, I would cry every time she limped, because that limp never slowed her running to me as soon as she saw me. She never cared that she hurt. She cared only that I did.

I am not a crier. I am a control freak. Even as a kid, my mom used to marvel at regardless of the fall, I would get up, dust myself off, and keep going. If I did cry, I always did it in private.

But that limp crushed me. I couldn’t imagine being in pain always. I couldn’t believe that the bones of this beautiful animal failed her then, and eventually would be the reason for her death.

She hated toys. Loved other dogs. When I lived in Denver, we would walk over to Washington Park just in time to play with the rest of the dogs. As we got to the edge of the grass, I would undo her leash, and she would sprint 10–15 yards towards the crowd of dogs. As she got about 5 feet away, she would flip over on her back and slide into the middle of them all reveling in the attention she would get as each dog came over to say hello.

As she grew older; I grew better.

As she became wiser; I became forgiving.

As she continued to teach; I continued to learn.

On Monday, October 5, Billie succumbed to an aggressive bone cancer. I had sworn that I would do what was best for her, but found myself doubting my resolve. How could I fail her? How could I have missed this?

I never missed anything when it came to Billie. Months before I noticed her ears weren’t turning the way they should. Specifically the right ear. Turned out she had a pile of hair in her ear.

But what if it was an early cancer sign? What if in the arrogance of my diligence, I missed something that would have saved her life?

Did I kill my dog?

I can’t get that thought out of my head. I have poured over pictures of Billie from the past several months. Is that a bump? Is that what I missed? Is it a trick of the light, or could it be an early indication of a tumor?

I don’t know. I try to not beat myself up about it, but I can’t shake it. I missed something. I had to have. I don’t miss anything, but I missed this.

We often talk about how our pets are pure love and Billie was no different. Except she was. It wasn’t that she loved unconditionally, it was that she taught me how to love.

Before Billie, the feelings I had that I labeled “Love” weren’t. They were untrusted love. I never saw myself as someone who could be loved by anyone other than was supposed to love me, and I certainly never believed that I could love another completely.

It wasn’t anything she did, or the proverbial “animals love unconditionally.” It was in how she loved. She loved with sacrifice. And I learned that love is always coupled with sacrifice.

It is not worth loving someone, if you aren’t also willing to sacrifice for that person.

In all of my relationships growing up, it always seemed that love was the opposite of that. I was giving or taking. I was asking or providing. But, I never sacrificed. I never took a moment to think about my desire to ensure the other person’s complete happiness. I was selfish. I cared about my needs. I cared about me and only me, because fuck them. They were going to fuck me over anyway.

Not Billie. Not once.

She gave up time to the cats. She protected Taylor and taught her to care. She sat next to me as I wanted to die, as I decided that death was the best choice and asked me what had I sacrificed for love.

Nothing.

So I sacrificed my desire to die, and gave into her lesson. I fell into her smile and buried my face into her fur and cried. Really cried. For the first time in my life. And as my battered soul emptied out of my body, she replaced it one fractured piece at a time. It took nearly a year, and I emerged different, but better.

Billie wasn’t a dog to me. She was my friend, my mother, my reason. She taught me the importance of a purpose defined by the success of others all while being selfish about my own happiness.

This wasn’t a pleasant death. There was no poetry or beautiful music. No movie will be made of Billie’s life with a satisfying, but sad, ending.

She got bone cancer, and it quickly grew into a significant tumor in her shoulder that burrowed to her spine. She was in pain. A lot of pain. The type of pain that I would have tapped out of days earlier.

On her last day, I carried her outside, and she sat in the grass. After a few moments, she got up and walked over to Max to say goodbye. On her way inside (she refused to let me carry her), she said goodbye to Calin.

A few hours later, with my mom and sister, Natalia, surrounding her, my vet and her tech began the process. I placed my hand over Billie’s mouth so I could feel her last breath.

I leaned over and told Billie that I had learned everything she could teach me. That I would be ok. I thanked her for turning me into the man I am on the path to become.

As my hand stopped feeling the heat of her breath, I told her I loved her. She settled into my hand as she had done thousands of times before and at 3:18 PM, she died.

Billie 2005–2015.

In the Jewish religion, the number 18 signifies life. It is not a coincidence that she died at 3:18, as she gave me three lives:

1) the life I led before;

2) the life I had with; and

3) the life I will lead.

Without her, I would have had only one.

And, most likely, none.