I thought Obi was going to die that night.
My husband and I seated at a marble two-top on the patio of Versailles, the famous Cuban cafe, bakery and restaurant, watching and listening to the traffic on the street - curses in Español with equally fiery hand gesticulations, intense honking, screeching of tires, sharing a cortado along with flaky buttery pastelitos de guayaba y queso, Napoleones and croquetas, resting our feet after walking around the famous street art mural neighborhood of Wynwood in Miami. It was a perfect December day in Miami, sunny and cool enough that you wouldn’t break a sweat. Obi, our road trip constant, was tired too, panting, by our feet.
Two hours past and it was time to head back to our hotel in the outskirts of the city. We cleaned up after ourselves and all three of us stood up to walk to the car. After a few steps, Obi’s leash felt taut against my hand. His legs wobbled and his behind fell to the ground. I carried him to and into the car. The life in him that was earlier making goo-goo eyes with the lovely ladies for pets gone. His body limp. His snout turned away from the offer of a bowl of food and water.
I held my breath in an endless stream of tears, bracing for the worst case scenario - imminent death. I wasn’t ready! How could this even be?
Obi regained his strength after the longest three hours of my life. He took to the feeding bowl, drank water, ate then wobbled up in the same way he wobbled down, taking baby steps on the green area surrounding the hotel. The following day, I insisted to get Obi a “stroller” to be ready in such times of need. But because of his size and weight, I settled on a wagon, the kind that was used by small families hauling their toddlers and all the trimmings needed to care for them. The kind that you pulled from behind with one hand.
But Obi was all smiles, walking like his normal self, as if nothing even happened. The wagon sat in our garage, propped against the wall, gathering dust, only to be used to haul out the recyclables.
The switch flipped that day. The sky dark, rain and thunder shook the walls and Obi not himself. His nose and paws ice cold. He refused the bowl of food that he would happily scarf down. His ears didn’t turn, his head didn’t raise as I exclaimed “Toy!” and “Where’s Squeaky?” He couldn’t walk. His body limp and lifeless. I hand fed him his food. I cradled his 30-lb body in my arms, that felt heavier, deadweight, and brought him outside to do his business. I knelt on the patch of grass and Obi plopped on the ground. He wobbled, struggling to raise and carry the weight of his behind to wee.
I broke down into tears as the Universe whispered a resolute “It is time.” in my ears.
My husband pushed me to bring Obi to the vet to check before we jumped the gun, refusing to assume the worst. We drove through the torrential downpour. Obi was still not himself. He simply curled on the seat in complete silence, not caring about the parade of dogs that he would always herd, barking as they passed by him, as we waited for our turn. He simply lay on the steel table that once clattered against the scratching of his nails from the anxious patter of his feet. The color drained from his ears, gums and tongue. The fire inside him slowly fading away.
The vet took his blood test and an x-ray to see if there were any tumors that hid inside his furry little body. I exhaled a sigh of relief when the vet said there was none, but his red blood cell count was at an alarmingly low level. Steroids would help fight whatever he could not see. I took it as I knew it could only fight back to buy us more time to spend with Obi.
Each day was dedicated to making Obi happy.
After a dose of the steroids and more hours of rest, a glimmer in Obi’s life spark. He ate on his own, but still needed some hand feeding. He perked up at the sound of the opening fridge door. He barked at the squeal of the Squeaky. He grumbled at any attempts to kiss him. He barked at my husband’s jabs and teasing. But he still needed to be carried like a baby around and outside the house.
Then I remembered the orange wagon sitting in our garage, which I dragged out of retirement, unfolded and loaded Obi in it. He was unsure of it, struggling to gain balance with his already wobbly legs in a moving wagon. But slowly, a smile. His face lit up as I rolled through the complex on our usual walking route. He was moving, but not moving.
I looked back at my love having the time of his life in his final days and I thought of The Fool card.
In the Major Arcana, it is one of the two cards that have the dog in the scene. A man walking lah-dee-dah - his face looking up at the beautiful bright sun drenched sky, with a staff over his shoulder, carrying a satchel at the end, walking towards the edge of a cliff, clueless about the chasm ahead of him. Beside him is what seems to be a trusty companion, a dog, also walking towards the cliff’s edge to either warn him or take the plunge with him.
The Fool is ground zero. Literal number zero. It is the ripeness, or rather roundness of possibility and opportunity. It is that light bulb moment when this is a good idea and you take a chance, the leap, not knowing what exactly is ahead.
In the rendition of The Fool in the Sacred Sisterhood tarot, a girl carrying a backpack, balancing and crossing the log that lies between the chasm and two places. Her trusty dog, seated on the log, looking inquisitively at the drop below, one ear raised, listening for any danger ahead.
Obi was our trusty companion. He’s been with us, especially me, who spent more time at home for too many The Fool moments to mention. Every road trip when I strapped on his hammock to the back of our car was a dive into the chasm of the destination. We didn’t know what was ahead of us, except the idea of getting there.
Obi was with us, tasting all local delicacies, taking photos of landscapes, sharing the space, experiencing life. He was with us when our rental was T-boned in an intersection in the Atlanta suburbs one stormy night. He was with us when we rode at the back of the police car, drenched, cold and hungry, as we were escorted to our hotel. He was with us when we were invited to a ranch on Blackfeet reservation by the mountain ranges that stood between the US and Canada. He even ate all the lechon AND Mang Tomas sauce we bought in New Jersey and were saving for a meal post the 24-hours on the road.
He was a fool like us. He was our little fool, always ready to hop into the car and head off for a new adventure.
As I heaved, pulled the wagon, I looked back at his wide smile, his ever curious eyes moving, his head turning to gaze at the neighbors and their apartment buildings, tears dotted the edges of my eyes. I wish I had the stroller, where we could look at each other. I could enjoy every second of his mischievous smile and his tear stained snout. Instead, I had to look ahead, watch out for the cars and focus where I was going. He really is behind me now. He is now part of the past that I look back on.
And as we take our little leaps in life, we often don’t look back, only forward to get to the other side. We are fools to do so, but it is necessary, else we would never have budged an inch.
Our Obi crossed the rainbow bridge in my arms last Friday, November 4, 2022. Our hearts were broken in a thousand pieces with the loss of our dog son, who’s been part of our everyday lives for almost eight years. Appreciate your prayers for him, my husband and I through these difficult times. I never imagined losing a pet would be this painful.
To read more about the Tarot, check out the newsletters on each card for #TarotTuesday below:
Major Arcana
Minor Arcana
Wands
Cups
Swords
Pentacles