After Life

Metempsychosis is a form of madness, but one devoid of any diagnostic criteria. It is not characterised by disturbances of reasoning, dysfunctional thinking, delusions, paranoia or hallucinations. It is simply the belief in the immortality of the soul, hingeing on its transmigration into another body at time of death. Believers hope this process of rebirth will evolve through purifications to the point that corporeal life and its concupiscent appetites will eventually end. Consequently, metempsychosis might be viewed as a sort of spiritual Darwinism: freed from the wheels of rebirth, it is believed the fully-evolved soul will enter a state of all-knowing godlike consciousness, sublime peace and absolute bliss.

Christians, Muslims and Jews subscribe to a similar sort of madness, one that is also grounded in faith rather than verifiable evidence — you can’t see it unless you believe it — but they differ in that they only allow one chance at meeting the entry requirements for leaving this transient, sublunary existence and thereafter graduating to everlasting happiness: the life lived now. Though it is excluded by some Christians, one qualifying caveat is purgatory: a time-warped halfway house (one that predates the time of Christ) for expiatory purification — a place where one might resit one’s exams, so to speak.

For a variety of reasons, including fear, indoctrination and social conditioning, many people spend part of their life preparing for the next. As records reveal declining attendance at churches, synagogues, mosques and temples, it appears more and more people pine for happiness on Earth, now or in the future. Wedged between are those who wonder what true happiness might be, especially under capitalism, and whether a future is in fact likely. Some seem almost ecstatic about the end of things, among them the Jehovah’s Witnesses. A group arrived at my door in Edinburgh to advise me the end of the world is imminent, prophetically quoting passages from scripture portentous of current events — floods, earthquakes, viruses, storms and heatwaves. By the end of a long conversation I remained as mystified by the world’s end as by its beginning.

It often seems to me religion is the madness many need in order to cope with the madness of the universe and our existence within it. It offers some explanation of how life began, and of how it might continue…if you’re very very good. When one stops to consider how mad it is that we are somehow here, wandering the surface of a ball that spins endlessly in a cold, dark, lifeless, spiritless, meaningless cosmos, everything seems possible, perhaps reasonable, including metempsychosis. Indeed, the prospect of being endowed with the ability to make a better version of ourselves appears an attractive proposition.

There are varieties of metempsychosis kicking around, but the version that appealed to me most was put forward by Plato. Whilst in some religions returning as a lesser species is considered retribution for sins, Plato thought the opportunity either to return to the physical realm in a human body, or that of an animal of one’s choosing, to be entirely natural. This struck me as perhaps the nicest idea I’d ever stumbled upon, and not just because there are some animals I prefer to some humans. Is it possible that some people chose to humble themselves, or perhaps elevate themselves, by serving humanity as a dog, I wondered — this being our most loyal, trusting and forgiving companion. A dog would lay down its life for its human friend and, as everyone knows, there is no greater, more profound love than this.

The Dog, by Goya (Museo del Prado).

The name Zoe comes from the Greek, meaning life, and I gave that name to my dog when she entered mine, just six weeks old. I don’t know if Zoe was human in a previous life, but there is no doubt she tried to converse as one, managing vowels but not consonants or fricatives (the one exception, and her greatest vocal accomplishment, was saying ‘out’ when she wanted a door opened. She said that a lot.). Even without speech she was able to communicate. She knew when I was hurting, when my back was bad or if I was down in the dumps, and would let me know with sad eyes and a gentle nudge of her nose that she would always be there for me, no matter what. In those moments she was at her most caring, loving and considerate. How could a dog know so much, give so much, and yet ask for so little? Her needs were simple, but it would be wrong to assume her only joys were food and romance, for even if they were not met I have no doubt she would have given everything for one’s happiness, willingly and without hesitation. A born protector and friend — how often has a human brought us this close to humanity? Were it not for dogs there would be far more misery in the world, and for many, perhaps, far less reason for remaining in it.

Though I was reliably informed it was his last night, I couldn’t visit my dad at the end. I was looking after a baby, my one-year-old son — babies were not allowed in cancer wards — and I couldn’t find anyone to help. No one in my immediate family was willing to relinquish that unique time to be by his side during his last breath, and who could blame them? I was nineteen when he was diagnosed, and he died in a matter of weeks, but whilst I saw him a lot in that short time there were still things I wanted to say. When we were told his life would end in a matter of hours I began to panic. I couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out a way to see him. Nonetheless, I should have been there. Nothing should have stopped me. Nothing.

Never having witnessed that moment when life leaves the body, I knew very little about death when Zoe’s time came. Part of me could neither consider it nor believe it. In her later years, her hind legs stiffened and ached with arthritis, and there were times when she could hardly climb the stairs without her legs giving way. She often slipped and would use her chin to lift herself up a step. There is no cure for old age, and I could only keep her comfortable, offer soothing words, and take time on walks. One afternoon she began walking into walls and howling, presumably in agony. Kathryn came home early from work to drive us to the vet’s. I held Zoe on my lap in the back passenger seat wrapped in her tartan blanket, still howling and yelping, tormented by pain.

When we pulled to a stop the handbrake failed. The vet’s premises were on a hill, and Kathryn had to remain in the car to cover the foot brake and prevent our one-ton antique from rolling away. Holding Zoe close I weaved my way through the crazy traffic. It was a dark, wintry afternoon and raining heavily when I came out of the vet’s. Kathryn could see from between the cars splashing past at speed that I left with only the blanket. Her heart sank. We sat in the car for a time in silence on this dark hill in the rain. I couldn’t speak, neither of us could. As the window-wipers brushed back and forth hypnotically, I let my mind retrace the events of the last half hour.

On my way out, the vet’s assistant called me back. Would you like to pay now, she asked. Not so much a request as a command. I handed her my credit card in silence — if I had spoken one word the dam would have burst. After signing the credit slip I saw Zoe looking at me searchingly through the small window of the surgery door. At least she couldn’t know this was the end, I thought, but she was nonetheless confused and in need of comfort. Why couldn’t I give her that? The injection of a death-inducing drug into her hind leg would quickly render her unconscious, shutting down her heart and brain function within a minute, perhaps two. The vet had asked me if I wanted to stay while she put her down. Some people stay, she said, and some people go. My head was swimming and I had to ask her to repeat the question. Zoe was trembling on the stainless steel table, looking at me imploringly, no longer yelping.

In an effort to take emotion out of the equation, though in fact making matters worse, the vet somewhat cheerfully conveyed the fact that Zoe’s condition was neurological, and not at all unusual in these breeds, but all I cared about was stopping her pain. It would be a kindness to put her down now, she said, and then asked me again, stay or go. I don’t know how many times she asked me that. It seemed arrogant and demanding. I needed time to think. If only Kathryn had been there, I could have asked her what I should do, or if the vet hadn’t been so matter-of-fact, standing there imperiously in her surgical apron waiting for an answer, hurrying me, the seconds thundering past — if only she had told me what was the right thing to do, I would have done it. But why didn’t I know the right thing to do? I felt Zoe’s heart racing. She would never have left me there alone, never. Stay or go? Unable to form a single word, and on the brink of collapse, I shook my head and walked out into the rain.

By the time I had crossed the busy main road, Zoe was dead. At that moment the realisation of my greatest blunder hit me with blunt force, one that could never be unmade, not through rebirth, not through purgatory, not through forgiveness, for there is nothing so absolute as death. Nothing.