On Limitation

To Define is to limit.

Those words have haunted me since the first time I read The Picture of Dorian Gray, when Hallward is flirting with a woman who is curious about his nature.

When we’re sick and go to the doctor, we’re looking for a diagnosis, a definition, some limit to our condition so that it can be healed.

There is a hard limit to our reality. One which everyone faces at some point.

And since the dawn of human history, people have made as many attempts to define it as there are stars in the sky, with many more surely on their way.

Death.

My favorite way to look at death is probably the simplest I’ve encountered:

Death is the end of potential.

I picked you up in my arms last week and told you that you were the one that I wanted my entire life. You looked back at me and didn’t quite get what I was saying but you laid your head against my chest and knew that you were loved.

I find it remarkable, for thousands of years of evolution, cohabitation and breeding to bring me to you.

At some point in their evolution, someone decided to craft the optimized canine. To be obedient, useful and selfless. A patient and helpful companion.

And some other guy made you.

My stubborn and rambuncious boy.

You weren’t the perfect dog, and I’m not the perfect human, but something in raising you from a pup brought out so much good in me.

JoJo’s life ended when he was 4 years old.

It was my great privelige when we first got you, to watch you learn about the world. When I was teaching you to fetch, you’d run after the ball and when you reached the other side of the house, you’d forget why you ran there.

And you’d run back to me as if nothing should have allowed you to leave my side. How I wish you’d come back to me now as you did then.

You were a wild, happy boy and I love you very much.

If tears could bring you back to me, you’d have lived a thousand lives.

The love I feel for you is unlimited.

JoJo’s life may have ended at 4 years old, but his story continues with me.

-Jonathan, JoJo’s Human