I’m standing in the parking lot of Wegmans in Ithaca, New York. I open the backdoor of my parents’ banged up white Caddy, the car I use every time I’m upstate. Before I set my grocery stash in the back of the car, I reach into the hot plastic bag to shred a piece of rotisserie chicken with my bare hands, ensuring it’s not too salty. I’m about to deliver this $10 good to Cornell Veterinary Animal Hospital to my dog, Bowie.
It’s October 2024. He got sick suddenly and dramatically, in true Bowie fashion. I had just gotten back from being out of town for six weeks. As a travel writer and content creator, my job keeps me on the road. My mom called me while I was en route back to New York.
“He’s not doing good,” she said as I boarded my final flight, leg of four, to Syracuse.
I knew in my heart something was wrong, but I swallowed Chardonnay in the Delta One lounge like it was water to wash the feeling down. When I walked through the door and wasn’t greeted by the usual body-wiggling excitement, I knew it was serious, and before I dropped my bags, my mom and I were in the car with the sirens on, rushing to an emergency vet in Albany.
When you come home to a dying dog, you realize none of it matters. You’d trade it all for just one more moment. So now, here I am, in a parking lot, shredding rotisserie chicken with my bare hands, eating hot meat in broad daylight while hovered over the concrete, outside of a backdoor of a busted car. Albany told us Bowie needed a blood transfusion, but they didn’t have any blood to give, so we made our way to Ithaca, the only town we ever end up in when any of our pets’ health takes a decline.
I got myself some food, too. Sushi, which in retrospect, was a terrible choice. Bowie hasn’t eaten in a few days, and he really loves when his humans eat with him. As I make the dreaded drive back to Cornell, I question why I was so selfish to get raw fish topped with thinly sliced jalapeños, the few ingredients I can’t share with my beloved pup.
The vet techs at Cornell told me it’s not too alarming that he hasn’t eaten in three days. “Dogs can go without food for five days,” they said. I know my boy, though, and I knew he wasn’t eating, of course because he was sick, but also because he was scared. There’s nowhere this dog hates more than the vet.
When we arrived in Ithaca three days prior, we were told to say our goodbyes to Bowie. We had 15 minutes. 15 minutes to say goodbye to a lifetime of love. He was so sick that he leaned his entire body weight into mine. I will never forget how weak he was, and what I felt when his furry body desperately pressed into me. The world’s most hyper boy suddenly couldn’t even keep his head up, and I was fresh off of a flight after six weeks out of the country, where, from a cafe in Reims, France, all I wanted to do was go back to the front yard to play fetch with Bowie. Now, I was sure I wouldn’t get that chance again.
There was guilt, there was an incredible amount of anxiety due to the unknown, there was devastating heartbreak in trying to make sense of losing my dog, my soulmate. But most of all, there was a selfless love divided on two things: fight to keep him alive if I really thought he had a chance, or let him go if I really thought there was no chance. In this case, I wasn’t quite ready to give up, and for the first time in my life, I screamed to the sky begging for some type of sign that he was meant to live a little longer. It felt too sudden, too unknown. There was no diagnosis. That first night I admitted him to Cornell, I couldn’t stop crying, that relentless, dry-heaving type of wail. I needed a breath of fresh air, and I stepped outside to see the northern lights. It was annoying how beautiful Ithaca was. It still is.
I hate it there.
To everyone’s surprise, Bowie persevered. We joked he was the dog who would “always live to see another day.” We were able to bring him home, and it was a long October, but he lived to see the other side. One day, I sat out on my parents’ lawn on a blanket with him, squeak toy in hand. When I saw him try to run after the ball again, I knew I had him for at least a little longer.
The next few months were wonderful. Bowie came to the Amtrak station in Utica, New York to send me off to Antarctica. I held him on Christmas in front of a giant tree, and I spent New Year’s with just him, a few mezcal margaritas, and a vision board. I was invited on a paid partnership trip in the spring to depart on May 17, but it was Bowie’s birthday, so I told them I could only go if I left May 18. Almost losing him made me realize this could likely be his last birthday, and I wanted to spend it with him.
Then, June came around.
A cough.
“He has a cough,” his many dogsitters said. I heard it, too, but I chose to live in complete denial. I was in Italy when I got the call.
“He’s really not good, Kait,” my dad said, a lump in his throat apparent.
It was June 19, and because of the US national holiday, Juneteenth, most vets were closed. But my mom found one open and rushed him anyway.
Fluid.
He was full of fluid. An enlarged heart, which we knew for years, but it seemed to be progressive. I was on my way to a work lunch in the Italian Dolomites, which sounds dreamy, but is anything but when you’re coming off of a call like that. I tried to keep it professional, but I broke down in front of the two people I was dining with over a salad.
“I’m sorry, I just got a call,” I said. “I think my dog is dying.”
I came home from Italy shortly thereafter, and when my mom and Bowie picked me up from the airport, I instantly knew we were at the point of no return. He had a cough that was much worse than the one I heard when I had left. His exasperation when he saw me led to hacking that sounded painful.
Only a few days after returning, my parents and I decided to go on a boat ride on Oneida Lake. We all knew Bowie was declining quickly, but he was still playing, eating, licking our faces, and being his adorable, happy go-lucky self, gnarly cough in tow. We contemplated bringing him on the boat ride, but it was hot out, and we feared he would overheat. So, we abandoned him and we closed the door, or … so we thought we did, because we had only closed the screen door. As we walked down the dock, about to step on the boat, we heard something coming, only to turn around and see sweet little Bowie, running down the grassy lawn onto the dock, because in his resilient Boston self, he managed to knock the entire screen door down out of his pure desire to be with us.
Obviously, we took him on the damn boat.
He was so happy to be on the pontoon. Panting away, drinking his water, sitting on the seat and resting his head in our laps. He was old, and he was sick, but his love for us seemed to be the medicine.
Every night for the coming weeks, my parents and I were woken up by the sound of hacking, a cough that sometimes led to gurgling and wheezing, caused by his congestive heart failure. He was, in sum, drowning in his own fluid, and when he laid down, that fluid built up, causing him to suffocate. I feared many times that we would watch him suffocate to death, but it puts you between a rock and a hard place when your dog is acting totally normal during the day, and at night, the sounds can only be compared to those of a horror movie.
There were many sleepless nights, many mornings of discussing, “Should we just pull the trigger?” But it becomes impossible. It’s so much easier said than done, “Put him down,” “Take him out of his misery,” when he’s still bringing a ball to you and begging you to throw it.
It got so bad that I woke up one morning and saw him and my mom were gone. I called her.
“We’re on our way to Cornell, the coughing was really bad,” she said.
I hated that we had to go back to Ithaca. Ithaca was always associated with Bowie’s worst moments, and I thought we could finally be done with that place after last October. But here we were again. I had a quick work meeting, and then got in the car to meet them there.
I sobbed the entire grueling two-hour drive. I talked to my friend on the phone.
“I know this is it,” I said through stifled tears. “I know this is the end.”
My one qualm was I never wanted to put Bowie down in a vet’s office. I wanted to do it at home. That dog hated the vet more than anything, and as a dog who was already generally quite anxious, I didn’t want his last moments in life to go down in serious distress.
I got to Cornell Animal Hospital, where I learned that he was considered to be in critical condition, and was immediately put in an oxygen tank. I asked if I could see him.
The scene I saw, or the Bowie I saw, was a much different Bowie than the one whose tongue was turning blue just a few hours earlier from not being able to breathe. Bubble-gum pink gums, a tongue panting in excitement (and probably anxiousness), and boundless energy. But…he was also inside an oxygen tank. He saw me and started crying immediately to get out. I asked if I could hold him, and they said no, that the tank was saving his life. I knew it was true, but it also hit me how unsustainable this situation was. What are we to do: bring him to Cornell every week to go in an oxygen tank for 24 hours, only to extend his life by a few weeks? Though the oxygen tank was technically “saving his life,” it felt cruel. I questioned who we were doing all of this for: for our own gain to say that Bowie lived a little longer? Because despite the fact that he could finally breathe, he certainly did not want to be in that oxygen tank; he would rather have been busting down screen doors, even with a cough, just to be by us.
My mom and I went into the cold, sterile vet room without Bowie since he had to stay in the tank. The vet thoroughly explained to us that it would be perfectly reasonable to euthanize him at that point, but if we wanted to, they could keep him overnight and try to come up with a proper treatment plan since we didn’t really have one yet. I was initially against keeping him overnight, and she said she understood, but that if that was the case, we needed to come up with an immediate plan for euthanasia. My mom wanted to keep him overnight, in hopes that we could get a few more months out of him. I agreed he could stay one night, that was it, that no matter what, we had to take him home the next day.
So, he stayed. And here I was again, booking that same motel up the street from Ithaca where I saw the northern lights the previous October. My mom and I left Cornell in shambles, with some type of gut feeling that we were giving him one last chance.
“What do we do now?” I said, as we drove from the hospital.
And that’s when I realized, every moment since last October has been killing time while my dog is dying.
Food. Let’s go get some food. Neither of us had eaten and it was almost 5 p.m. We didn’t really know where we were going, accidentally pulling into a supper club spot with Creole cuisine, which, as amazing as it likely was, wasn’t quite the atmosphere we were looking to be in. Then we spotted a Chili’s.
Perfect.
We grabbed two bar seats and ordered some appetizers with large glasses of Pinot Grigio. The realization of what was happening was settling in for both of us with different reactions; she was hopeful, I was anything but optimistic. We sat there in silence with a few small talk conversations in between, both of us blurting to the bartender that our dog was dying.
Chili’s didn’t kill enough time. Like last October, our lives became dependent on waiting for a phone call. Did he make it? Is he okay? Can he recover? How much time does he have left? Is he breathing? Is he alive? Can he please, please come home now?
So, we went to Walmart. I wish I didn’t know the Ithaca Walmart as well as I do, but we did the same thing last October. Since neither of us had anything with us, in the haphazard fashion we ran out to Ithaca in, we decided to buy Walmart clothes. I got a blue flowy dress and soft red PJs with cartoon pieces of pie on them. I bought a hat with characters from PacMan on the rim, a great disguise for not having washed or brushed my hair that day. And then I saw this black and white caftan, surprisingly stylish for Walmart clothes. It felt right to be in my Parker Posey era of wearing ever-flowing dresses that hid my entire body with a PacMan hat while I was mourning what I hadn’t quite lost yet. In that moment, I decided I’d wear black and white for the foreseeable future, to honor the colors of Bowie’s fur.
We got a call later that night that Bowie was stable, and that he could likely come home the following day as planned. Trying to sleep under those conditions is not, by any means, easy. The following day, we got yet another call in the morning that they needed to ween him off of the oxygen tank slowly to monitor his breathing, and that we would have an answer by the late afternoon regarding his status.
So, yesterday was Chili’s and Walmart; what the hell do we do in Ithaca today? My birthday was a few days later, and I wanted a birthday manicure, so we went to Miracle Nails. It feels odd picking out rainbow sparkly nail polish when you could get a call at anytime that your dog died, but the manicurist complimented my color choice. The nail salon only brought me to noon, so I drove to a shopping plaza and popped into a Supercuts, long overdue for a haircut. Alright, that killed another 20 minutes, I guess I can go to Trader Joe’s. I didn’t need groceries, but grocery shopping (Trader Joe’s specifically) always brings me a sense of calm. I bought some cold brew and dark chocolate covered pistachios. The man checking me out of the store complimented my choices, just like the manicurist did. I said, “I’m just killing time while my dog is at Cornell Vet.” He joked that I was solely supporting the Ithaca economy.
Bowie made it, again. He came home later that day and looked about ten pounds skinnier because they drained so much fluid off of him. The next test would be to see if the fluid came back, and if so, how quickly that happened. Within 72 hours of him being home, he looked pregnant and puffy, and his cough was back full force, every night. We brought him home on a Friday, and by Tuesday, I had come to realize he wasn’t going to make it.
Wednesday morning, I decided I would take the step to at least call an at-home euthanasia service. He was sitting next to me when I called. It felt wrong in every sense of the word, scheduling his death when he’s right here, right next to me, alive.
They asked if he’s still eating and drinking, and he was. I immediately felt like it was wrong, too soon. Do we just keep letting him suffer, knowing it’s going to get worse, or do we act while we still have control over the situation? They asked me if I wanted him to be buried or cremated, and I was woefully unprepared for that question. It spiraled me. I couldn’t look at the sweet, furry boy next to me, resting his head against my leg, and envision him in the ground or in dust. I was nearly hyperventilating on the phone from tears, and I told them I would call them back. I needed to really think about these things, all of it.
And then the question was … when? When do you schedule death? Is 5 p.m. on a Tuesday good, or should we go for 11 a.m. next Thursday? There’s something particularly disturbing about having that kind of power. Once something dies, it can’t be brought back. I didn’t want the responsibility of something so final, but at the same time, it’s something I knew would come eventually when I signed up to be Bowie’s mom.
It’s the part you don’t think about. When you see a cute eight-week old Boston Terrier in Holland Patent, New York, you see it for what it is: a sweet, loving pup who is bound to make your life much brighter simply by his presence. I was 21 years old when I got Bowie. I knew so little about anything in the world, and my life has drastically changed over the course of his 13 years with me. I went from being a bartender in New York to a law school student to a world-traveler. And no matter how many nights I got back at 5 a.m. from slinging drinks in Manhattan, no matter how awful my schedule was when I was in law school where I lived at a library Monday to Friday and worked on Saturdays and Sundays, no matter how many trips to Italy I took that sometimes lasted up to six weeks, Bowie was forgiving. He loved me more than any soul on this earth ever has, which he showed by his excitement every time he saw me, a squeak toy always in his mouth ready to play.
I loved him just the same. Having Bowie made me realize I’m far too mentally unstable to be a parent to a human. I was unable to handle the stress of anytime something went wrong. I cried at every vet appointment, even if it was just for vaccinations. I hated seeing him in any type of discomfort, and I wanted nothing more than for him to be happy. When people were rude or snarky to Bowie, they got a much bigger bite from me. Bowie is my soulmate, my weird, little shaky sweet dog. He has saved my life in several situations. My mental health in my 20s and early 30s was, and is, a roller coaster, to put it lightly. There were many days when I wouldn’t have gone outside or see sunlight had I not had to walk him and take care of him. He pulled me out of so many slumps, and I always knew, no matter how bad things got for me personally, I would always fight to stay in it, because I could never, ever leave Bowie.
And yet, now, I have to make this horrible decision; we have to finally depart. I have to make the call of the final goodbye of the greatest love I have ever known. Some say it’s honorable, that you’re doing them a favor. It certainly didn’t feel that way. It felt like a cruel, horrifying situation to be in. It was.
But I couldn’t watch him suffer anymore. So after a 24-hour sob fest, where I pet him so much his skin might have gone raw, on Thursday, July 24, I called the euthanasia service back, deciding I would cremate him. I scheduled it for August 7, which was two weeks from that day. I figured two things: 1- it’s scheduled and I can always cancel it. 2- I have two more weeks with him.
I thought of all of the things I’d like to do. Cook him a filet, take him on a boat ride, do “Bowie treat yourself day” every single day where we could go to the pet store and he could pick out a new toy. I didn’t care if it would cost me $10,000. I would do everything with Bowie for the next two weeks, it was time I could never get back.
We sat outside on the lawn and he brought me his rubber chicken. He was trying hard to play, but he didn’t have it in him, getting exasperated at even picking the chicken up. He laid next to his chicken and just coughed. It was in that moment, only minutes after getting off of the phone with the at-home euthanasia service, that I realized we didn’t have to weeks. We might not even have 24 hours.
I called my parents and asked if we could get together to discuss a plan that was best for Bowie. We did, and it was messy. Not everyone agreed. But as his mom, as the woman who signed up to take care of him and always do what’s best for him, I knew I would not only never forgive myself if he suffocated on his own, but that it just wasn’t fair to keep him alive. He couldn’t even pick up his favorite toy. His back legs started to go because he was filled with so much fluid that he became too heavy to walk.
I called the euthanasia service back and scheduled it for 11 a.m. on Friday, July 25. I looked at my dad, “I don’t even know if he will make it through the night,” I said.
“I honestly don’t think he will,” he said.
Bowie’s condition seemed to have rapidly declined that Thursday. It was almost like, as soon as I scheduled August 7, he knew it was the end, and he started to let go. I laid on the floor with him.
“Stay in the fight a little longer, buddy,” I pleaded.
But at 11 p.m. that night, he looked so large that he could easily be confused for a mama dog pregnant with 12 pups. My mom and I got in the car and drove to yet another emergency vet. Our plan was to leave the euthanasia scheduled for 11 a.m. the next day, but simply ask if they could drain the fluid just so he could have one last comfortable night of sleep.
The vet took him in the back to examine him, and now, I was killing time while my dog was dying in the most literal sense — in a waiting room at the vet. She finally called my mom and I back, and she had horror in her eyes.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I can’t save him,” she said. “He is in a lot of distress.”
She went onto explain that because he was struggling to breathe so badly, that he was more anxious than usual, and in order to drain the fluid, she would have to give him a strong sedative. But the caveat is, that since his heart was failing, there was a very high risk that his heart would stop simply from the sedative.
Having been to so many vets throughout Bowie’s life, I know how bad it has to be for a vet to point-blank tell you the dog needs to be put down. I told her I had euthanasia scheduled in the morning, and asked if she thinks he could make it overnight. She said he likely would. I then asked her to get him as high as possible so he can be zonked out and comfortable, and then I asked her if I could have a moment alone with him.
I laid on the cold vet floor with Bowie. I pet him and patted his head as his little body struggled for air.
“Thank you for everything my little dude,” I said, stifled tears along the way. “You are the best fucking dog on the planet. You can let go whenever you want buddy, it’s going to be okay.”
We drove home, and whatever miracle drug the vet gave him worked. Bowie was high as a kite. I loved that for him. Fly high little buddy, and try to get one last good night of sleep.
At 5 a.m., I was woken up by coughing. I picked him up and put him on my bed. I always hated when people said, “They’ll tell you,” when it comes to your dog dying. Bowie was knocking fucking screen doors down just a few weeks earlier; I was convinced he would NEVER tell me, because he really did not want to die.
But on my bed, he leaned his body weight into me, the same way he did last October, letting out little puffs of air, looking at me with big, sad eyes. It fucking broke my heart. I hugged him tight and we cuddled. He just needed to make it to 11 a.m. I hugged him tight, and we cried together. We were cheek to cheek, and in that moment, he told me everything. He told me he couldn’t fight anymore. He was sad, terrified, confused. He looked at me like, “What is happening to me? Why do I feel so awful?” I told him I would do anything to fix it, but I can’t. And he’s got to be tough, and he has to let go. We took a peaceful 30 minute nap together. I hoped he would die right there in my arms, because it was the most peace I had seen him at in the past three weeks.
But after 30 minutes, he woke up coughing. I set him down and he vomited a dark brown color. I looked at my dad, “Did he have a treat?”
“No,” my dad said.
Blood.
It was almost 7 a.m. by this point, so I immediately called his vet. He was not going to make it to 11 a.m. I left a frantic voicemail asking if we could bring him to euthanize him as soon as they open, only 30 minutes later. They called me back. They said to come.
So, we drove to the vet. Our last car ride together. It felt appropriate that it was raining out. The sky was gloomy grey, perfectly exemplifying the mood. My mom did not want to come inside to see him die, so we gave them time together. We were given special instructions to use the side door. I looked at my dad and said, “Shit, I forgot his leash.”
“You don’t need his leash for this, Kait,” my dad said somberly.
That comment nearly broke me. I realized we were walking into the vet with Bowie, and we were leaving without him. What a sick, cruel, fucking joke.
I carried him inside. I had always said I didn’t want to put him down at the vet, but Bowie was so out of it, that he didn’t even know where he was. It seemed to be taking forever for them to come in, but when I checked the time, I realized we hadn’t even been there for two minutes. My dad asked Bowie for a kiss, because Bowie loved my dad’s scruff. He didn’t even acknowledge him, too far gone to lick the face of someone he loved dearly.
I sat on the floor, sobbing unconsolably, telling Bowie of some of our favorite memories together.
“Remember when we walked the Vegas strip, buddy?”
The vet came in and explained what would happen. I picked him up and put him on the table, hugging him as hard as I could.
“I love you forever, Bowie, I’m always with you, I’m always here,” I said as they gave him the needle. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m with you forever. Thank you for everything.”
“He’s now resting in peace,” they said. It was so fast. He looked like he was sleeping.
“He’s gone?” I said, panicked. “I didn’t look him in the eyes, though,” I said, desperate, as though they could bring him back so I could do that.
Now, there’s the aftermath. I was paralyzed for three straight days, not moving from the couch, not eating, just sitting, staring, crying. It’s torture to come home to a house full of toys, water dishes, uneaten food, bags of treats. Those were for him, who are they for now?
I felt a loss of direction without his presence. He was engrained in my everyday decision making. When I finally went out to eat for the first time after losing him, as I was packing leftovers, I thought, “I’ll give these to Bowie,” only to be reminded that’s no longer an option. The unlearning is constant.
They say grief comes in waves, but it’s been nearly four months now, and mine hasn’t left me. I still cry if I say his name, I still look forward to seeing him every night in my dreams. In the early days, I confused anything from a blanket to a bucket for him. I sat on the couch and my foot touched my dad’s boot. I looked down thinking it was Bowie. It was not him. It was a boot.
I grapple with so many thoughts. It’s hard to comprehend that Bowie was just a phase of my life, that I will never once get to experience what being in the room with him is like ever again. On the other hand, I feel lucky that I truly found my soulmate. Bowie was a weirdo — I’ve even had friends joke that he might not even be dog, more part-horse, part-alien. I still feel so deeply connected to him, and I know he does to me. He sends me signs all the time.
I never had strong opinions on the afterlife, or believed in any type of spirituality woowoo type of shit. But losing Bowie has changed that. I had a dream shortly after he died, where he was sleeping peacefully on top of a waterfall. Under the waterfall was me, drowning and fighting a shark. That was a pretty accurate way to sum up the emotions that came with losing him.
I had to review a rooftop restaurant, Vintage Green, for work in New York City. My friend Derek and I sat outside, but in the sweltering heat, we asked if we could be moved inside, so the server brought us to a table by the wall. A different server walked by, “Oh, you’re at the dog table!” Huh? I looked up to see a photo of a dog.
“The owner’s dog died, and this is the table dedicated to him,” they said.
I flew out of Syracuse airport, the same airport I’ve been going to since I was a child. There were two therapy dogs there with signs that said, “Pet me.” Yes, please. I sat on the floor, much against TSA’s wishes, and pet the dogs and cried into their fur. I was pissed they weren’t Bowie. Their fur didn’t have the same texture, these dogs were much bigger, these dogs weren’t my soulmate.
One day in Brooklyn, I woke up particularly bad. I screamed at the sky, “Bowie, can you please give me a sign? I miss you.” I decided to go for a walk, and on my walk, I popped into a coffee shop for an iced red eye. When I exited the cafe, there was a Boston Terrier, the first one I had seen since his passing. I didn’t even ask, and I just said, “I need to pet your dog,” while crying.
“How old is he?” I asked.
“13,” the owner said. The same age Bowie was when he died, wearing the same color harness Bowie had, which I was still sleeping with every night.
I decided to spend the rest of the year in Italy. Before losing Bowie I had also lost my New York-tied job, and being in the environment where Bowie had lived out his life was too difficult, too much of a constant, painful reminder. I was still waking up most nights thinking I was hearing him sniffling or snoring, but he was never there. I worked with a hotel in Tuscany, and wasn’t sure how to explain that my Bowie grief was really bad one day, and I didn’t know how to follow through with work commitments. But I went to lunch, and in the one sunspot of the restaurant, there was a little black furry body. It was a Boston Terrier, shining in the light. Bowie loved sitting in the sunspots, and it was literally Bowie with a ray of light on him in an otherwise moody restaurant.
I went over there, preparing myself to say, “My dog just died” in Italian, and showing them my tattoo of Bowie. It was a German couple visiting. This Boston Terrier wiggled his body the same exact way Bowie did, jumping all over me, kissing my face. It was Bowie, I’m convinced of it. Then, when things couldn’t get better, they somehow did.
“We actually have two,” they said, and another Boston Terrier popped out from under the table.
Then, when I finally got to my apartment in Naples, as I carried excessive luggage up the two-flight walkup, a leash-less black and white French bulldog was staring at me from the top of the stairs. Cholo. I didn’t know who he belonged to, but he followed me in my apartment. I ditched my belongings and sat on the floor with him while he punted the ball under the stove, forcing me to crawl to grab it, just like Bowie [annoyingly] did for most of his life.
It could very well all be a coincidence. But I will choose to believe it’s a sign from my beloved guy in the sky. When I close my eyes, I see Bowie smiling, I see him resting next to my grandparents, I see him with a pink ball in his mouth running through a field of flowers. I don’t see him coughing and suffering anymore. Energy cannot die; it cannot be created or destroyed. And while I have to hang out here down on planet earth for however much longer, I know, as soon as my time is up, I will be wherever Bowie is, we will find each other again, and I will finally be reunited with my souldog who made my life whole.
