By the time everyone’s good and content, I’m left with about twenty-five minutes to get ready myself: teeth brushed; black leggings, black cami, black athletic zip-up sweatshirt, and black Docs donned; Laura Mercier foundation in the most Victorian-waif-slowly-and-fashionably-succumbing-to-TB shade hastily applied; and brows quickly shaped with an overpriced NYX pencil. The finishing touch is the cat-eye you can pry from my cold, dead Millennial hands, drawn with an underpriced NYX liquid liner. A whisper of mascara to hide my blonde lashes, and I’m out the door in my whimsical little Smart Car.

Bodies aren’t permanent. They were never supposed to be. They change, they grow, they become damaged and broken and altered, and then they fail irreparably one day and we die. Nothing alive is exempt from these conditions, so why do we expect such exemption of women?

Over the years, I’ve seen comments on my Instagram calling me a sort of Death Doula for dogs. They’ve said that maybe my purpose in life is to help give dogs I adopt great ends to life and peaceful, loving transitions from this physical realm. I think that resonates with me. Other pet parents seem to struggle to make euthanasia decisions. I’ve known people who allow their dogs to suffer endlessly, ignoring vet advice, refusing to make the call. Humane euthanasia is a gift we give our pets. It’s and end to suffering. It’s a peaceful transition. People who haven’t seen natural death seem to assume it happens quickly and easily, like it does in films. In reality, it’s often painful, messy, traumatic, drawn-out. Humane euthanasia allows them to leave quickly, painlessly, and surrounded by love. Who could ask for more?