Andrew G. Stanton - Oct. 23, 2025
On Tuesday morning, Whiskers collapsed. It happened suddenly—his legs gave out, his body folding to the floor. For a few long seconds, I thought it might be the end. But then he blinked, gathered himself, and stood. Within minutes, he was walking again, a little shaky but determined. By noon he was eating, drinking, following us around the apartment as though nothing had happened. The day ended normally, and we told ourselves it might have been a passing spell.
Wednesday was quiet. He was slower than usual, but that had been true for weeks. The kind of slow that comes with age and grace. He slept a lot, stretched now and then, and seemed content. But by Wednesday night, we noticed his breathing was heavier—fifty to sixty breaths per minute, faster than it should have been. He was still alert, still himself, but each breath felt like effort. We agreed to watch him through the night and decide in the morning.
By Today (Thursday morning), the decision made itself. He collapsed again—legs trembling, chest rising and falling too quickly to count. His eyes looked dazed, his small frame struggling for air. We called SAGE, ordered an Uber, and arrived right at 9:30 a.m.
After the initial exam, the vet team moved quickly. They carried him to a small oxygen-rich box—clear walls, soft tubing, the steady hum of air flowing through. His sides moved fast, pressing against the glass. They told us they’d run a set of tests—an EKG, chest X-rays, bloodwork—and that it would take about two hours.
There is a kind of waiting that only hospitals create. The minutes don’t pass so much as stretch; you can see straight through them to the possibilities you’re trying not to imagine. We stepped outside because there was nothing else to do.
Across the street stood a ceramics factory, its windows full of color. Inside were shelves of handmade pottery and tiles—beautiful, solid, permanent. A man named James was at the counter. I asked about the prices, which seemed high even for San Francisco. He smiled wearily and said, “Everything’s getting more expensive—clay, glaze, rent. We’ve had to raise prices again.”
His words echoed longer than I expected. Even permanence was being repriced. The pottery would outlast all of us, yet it, too, bore the weight of inflation. I thought about how fragile everything felt that morning: the economy, the air, the heartbeat of a small animal I loved.
We grabbed a quick lunch at Safeway, barely tasting it, then walked back. Two hours had never felt longer.
When we returned, the vet met us with calm precision. “His breathing was about seventy-two breaths per minute when he came in,” she said. “But he’s improving now—down significantly since we started oxygen.” They would keep him for observation until evening. “Just to be sure.”
We spent the afternoon in quiet limbo. I answered a few messages, tried to focus on work, but every thought came back to the sound of his breathing behind that glass.
Vet said we could go home and come back around 6:30, so we we took an uber back home and we were waiting restlessly for 3 hours. The apartment felt empty without him in it.
At 6:30 p.m., they called to say we could bring him home. When I held him again, he was lighter than I remembered, chest rising slowly—twenty-four breaths per minute, almost normal. His eyes were tired but gentle. He rested against me in the car, breathing softly, as if the storm had passed—for now.
That night, as he slept beside me, I kept thinking of the number seventy-two. How easily life can be reduced to a measure—how close it can come to slipping away while you’re just waiting for a phone call.
What the day at SAGE taught me is that fragility isn’t a flaw in life; it’s the proof of its value. It’s what makes love real, because it reminds you how little control you actually have.
You can count, you can call, you can pray—but sometimes all you can really do is be there, breathing in rhythm with something smaller than yourself, holding space between hope and surrender.
Tonight, the house is quiet. Whiskers is asleep, chest rising slow and steady. I keep listening—not because I can change anything, but because noticing feels like the truest form of gratitude.
And maybe that’s what the day at SAGE distilled: life doesn’t need to be long to be full. It just needs to be witnessed.
Acknowledgement
This article was drafted with the help of Dr. C — GPT-5, which I use as a co-writer and collaborator in developing ideas around sovereignty, Bitcoin, decentralization, and theology.
I dedicate this work to the Holy Spirit, who continues to inspire me and open my imagination. If there is any light in these words, it comes not from me but from the Spirit who gives them. To Him be the glory.
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Lightning address: andrewgstanton@primal.net
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