While Minnie lies dying within a few feet of us, Maria and I see her together every morning. Then we sit down and have the “discussion,” which is basically about how long Minnie should live before we decide to end her life. We call it “The Conversation.”

It’s not an easy conversation. I told Maria this morning that I wanted her to know her power here: Minnie is her cat; she has cared for and worried about and sung to her and loved her for 16 years. It’s not for me to impose anything on her. To be there for her and Minnie, if necessary.

The final decision, the power here, is hers. My role is to give her my opinion, comfort her, and support her. With animals, we each have veto power. No animal on Bedlam Farm ever gets put down without the absolute approval of both of us.

Today, Maria came to me deeply upset. Minnie is blind and doesn’t seem to be able even to find water or food. Her meow has fated to a whimper; she can no longer keep her head up. She is losing weight rapidly and can barely open her eyes. I think she knows Maria and me, but just slightly.

The big concern for us is whether Minnie is suffering or not. She isn’t; she can barely move. We have a list of pain symptoms, but she has none.

I went with Maria and sat with Minnie for a while. She is very clearly failing and quickly.

We have decided to let her die in peace and dignity and keep trying to give her the peaceful departure we deny other humans. We’re sticking with it, although the longer it takes her, the more challenging for us, especially Maria.

But there is no space between us.

We don’t want her to die on a stranger’s linoleum floor with IV tubes sticking out of her. We want her to die in her familiar place, as barn cats do,  a place of comfort and familiarity. But we will no longer feed her and leave some fresh water down.

If she wanders off and disappears, so be it. That is nature’s way. It was difficult for Maria and I to have this conversation. I said I would take responsibility for giving her a peaceful and quick death. I won’t shoot her, but there are many other safe, fast, and humane ways to help an animal leave the world; I’ve used a number since living on a farm.

Our vet is just down the road; it would be easy to take her there. It’s up to Maria. If she hasn’t passed, we will wait a day or so to make these final decisions. In the end, it will be up to her. I prefer to do it myself.

As I’ve learned in my hospice and Mansion work, death is a great teacher if you listen and open your heart. As usual, many people think we know nothing about animals and death and lecture us on what to do. As always, we ignore them; we speak only to one another and our vet.

I am so grateful for the trust we show each other.

Several times a week, someone sends me a message advising me that I am “lucky” to have Maria as a wife and companion. I am deeply grateful to have Maria in my life; she turned it around, almost single-handedly, something many strong people have failed to do over a lifetime.

I love when anyone recognizes Maria’s loving and creative gifts; she is one of the most admirable and beautiful people I have ever met, a feeling that will surprise no one who reads the blog regularly.

But “luck” isn’t the right word.

Maria and I both appreciate the thought, but neither of us would agree that our relationship is based on luck or that one of us is luckier or more loving than the other. I thought of that again this morning as we had our “Conversation.”

Men have not earned a place of trust and respect in my world or hers (or many of yours), so it is not surprising that I would be considered lucky to have married her rather than the other way around. It’s a curious way to see it, but I understand where it comes from.

Neither of us believes in luck; we both take responsibility for what we have done wrong or correctly and what we have worked so hard to build with one another: trust and respect, and love. Good relations, we have learned, do not come from luck; they do not drop out of the sky on the will of the fates.

Good relations come from work, empathy, mistakes, corrections, and a willingness to grow, listen, learn, and change for each other. I am a better listener now, quicker to admit errors. I let love guide me, not testosterone.

I know of no luck in that, but it’s interesting; people rarely, if ever, tell Maria that she is lucky to have me as a husband and partner. This is how far men have fallen in our world – no one can imagine they, too, can do the hard work of love and surrender that goes into a good marriage.

The absolute good fortune in my marriage is that two people are willing to do just about anything to support, listen to, and respect the other.

We have had our share of ups and downs, but we always talk it through, listen, and come to a place of trust and love. As we did this morning, Maria and I often tell each other how grateful we are for having learned to talk and listen to one another when needed.

This didn’t just happen. Angels didn’t drop out of the sky to wave their wands.

Maria and I are very different people with much in common. It isn’t always easy, but it always works out. We work at it every day.

Confronting death on the farm was one of those things that helped us get to this good place. So did a commitment to love each other. We never entirely on each other; we never give up on each other.

We can talk about anything, even argue about anything; we trust and know that we will get to a good place and work it out. We always have. We always will.

Thanks, Minnie, for giving us another opportunity to do that. Your final gift to us.