Last night, well over 100 people (and counting) wrote Donna Nicosia to offer to take her dog Sally and give her a permanent and loving home. The offers were from as far away as Oregon and as close as Saratoga, where Susan is currently hospitalized.

I sometimes think the Blog is my mother; she gives and provides.

The Army of Good sustains and inspires me, they never miss a chance to be good, and they never fail to reach out to people in need. They prove again and again that people are good, given the chance, not cruel and selfish.

If not for the Army of Good, I might well have lost touch with what it means to be whole and human; it is easy to forget that if you depend on their news. They AOG nourishes and sustains me and hundreds, if not thousands, of other people.

Over the weekend, I wrote that Susan Popper’s dog Sally needs a permanent home as Susan comes to terms with inoperable liver cancer. Susan and Sally have been together for ten years, and it is a hard thing to give a lifetime dog to somebody else in a time of need.

We all agree that the best home for Sally is with an elderly woman or man with no dogs or cats.

I asked people who might be interested in adopting Sally to write Donna, one of Susan’s closest friends, and she is talking to these good people and sifting through the offers. Sally is a good sweet little dog.

Susan has been her whole life, the boundaries of her existence. I told Susan about the offers this morning; she is sad but very happy for Sally.

“She’s a sweet little girl,” she said, “she deserves a good and full life.”

She told me that Donna and I should decide what the best home is for Sally, and that would be okay with her. I told Donna it should be her call, and I would support her in every way; she can be e-mailed a [email protected].

There might be some substantial transport costs if the home is far a way. But we’ll deal with that later.

Susan had a stressful day on Sunday; she felt nauseous all day. She is better today and clearer. We talk in the morning, and then again, at night. Maria and I plan on revisiting her Tuesday.

This will be a critical week for her; the hospital will conclude its testing and recommend some options for her care. They want to know more about the cancer in her body.

Her brother arrives later in the week. I speak with him every day.

Susan hopes that she will be able to live her life somewhat normally for some weeks and months. She will get to choose from several possibilities, I think, from palliative care in the hospital to a nursing home or rehab facility or hospice.

Those choices are mainly in the hands of her insurance company and her doctors and her and her brother.

She has some serious medical issues beyond cancer, and as of yet, she cannot walk independently.  Her liver is struggling.

I am no seer, but when she asks me, I tell her that she ought not to try to live alone in her house, I don’t think it’s possible or practical, and she nearly died trying to do that. But it’s up to her, of course.

Susan and I are talking openly and honestly and in trust. I have gently urged her to consider the possibility that she may die soon.

No one, surely not me, can predict the future. But inoperable liver cancer is always the elephant in the room. She is very open to these conversations; we take them slowly.

My hospice training has been invaluable. I am there to listen, not to talk. To let her talk herself to a comfortable place, to guide when asked, and if I can. If it comes to it, death is so personal and individual, she gets to decide how to do it.

Sally will have a home; her house is secure; Susan has a wonderful team of doctors and friends who care. If this has to happen, she is in a good place.

A friend wrote to me to say that Susan has altered my work and my growth, showing me how we can let go of the hurt and get back to love. That’s what it feels like, going from hurt to love. Susan and I had a real and deep connection, and that’s good because we will both need it.

And it is so much more important than the things that separate us. I’ve been doing hospice volunteer work for some time now, and I’ve learned that everything we face, especially death, teaches us all beautiful and essential lessons.

It is sad, but not only that.