She was a good dog.

The day I took Poochie to be put to sleep was beautiful. It was one of those rare occasions, in Missouri, at least, in which the temperature was perfect. The clouds dotting the blue sky were like cotton balls. From the moment I woke up, I began preparing myself for the task ahead of me.  I filled my thoughts with the necessity of it all.  The lesser of all evils. The best thing from a list of the worst options.  I knew all of the logical things about the situation.  I knew we would be saying goodbye to her one day, and thirteen and a half years was a long and happy life for a dog.  I knew putting her to sleep would end her suffering.  I knew her cancer was not ever getting better. I knew she had started dropping weight and spending most of her time on her cushion in her pet taxi. I saw her have a seizure a couple of weeks ago, and I wondered how many she may have had when I was not around.  I had reached the point where I knew I could not watch her get any worse, and I did not want the kids to watch it either.

Knowing the right thing to do and having the courage to do it are two completely different ball games. I had called the vet a few weeks ago to set up this appointment, and when they called me back I did not answer my phone. This time I made the appointment.  I chose a vet we had never been to before, because Poochie hated going to the vet where she was fixed and got her shots. She would not go into the building willingly, and when we got to the door, she would plant her feet so that I would either have to carry her or drag her in by her leash! The kids and I talked it out, and we all decided they would not go.  I told Madison that Poochie's last day was not nearly as important as her first thirteen and a half years, and she had spent ten of those years with her.  Kevin has been working six days a week for most of the summer, and this weekend was no exception.  My mother-in-law offered to take her, but I decided it should be me.

The night before, I had given her a bath and fixed her an egg.  She loved eggs.  I thought I was approaching the whole thing with love, logic, and sound judgment. I was handling everything well, for the most part, but the closer I got to the vet's office, the further I felt my resolve slipping away from me. I began grasping for alternatives, chastising myself for not having her leg amputated at the first onset, and trying to come up with an excuse I could toss at the vet for missing the appointment.

I pulled into the parking lot and tried hard to convince myself that I was an adult.  I remember thinking as a kid that being a grown up would be awesome because I could do whatever I wanted all the time. Too often it means doing what has to be done instead. I composed myself.  I decided it would be best to go in and pay the vet for his service beforehand, and he caught me a little off guard when he needed to ask me a few questions.  He was as nice as he could be, but because she had not been there before, he had to get "a little bit of her history." He needed to know things like her age, weight, breed, whether or not she was a house dog, and if I would be taking her home. As I answered his questions, I felt my composure start to melt away once again.

I remember thinking, "Buddy, it will take more time than you have if you want to know Poochie's history." We are talking about two houses and three babies and all of the events in between.  We are talking about a look of disdain she directed at any other dog because she did not know she was one.  We are talking about her favorite plaid, burgundy, bone-shaped pillow and a Christmas stocking.  She held a mystery grudge against the Amish, causing her to bark frantically at the sight of a horse and buggy. She loved being under the covers, and sported a football hoodie, a t-shirt that said, "You couldn't afford me," and a red, velvet Christmas dress as the occasion deemed necessary.  When I got up in the night to change a sick child's bedding, Poochie's footsteps followed me down the hallway. She waited patiently until all was well again. She had a habit of working her nose into my palm if I was sitting still, because if I had nothing to do, I might as well be petting her. If I told her to, she would jump up so I could catch her, and plant her backside on my hip so I could carry her. When the weather was nasty, she ould come in the house and lay down on the rug with her paws in the air so I could wipe her feet with a towel.  She got up with me every time I needed to soothe a new baby in the wee hours of the morning, and when my babies cried in the next room during the day, she came to find me. She tolerated my toddlers as they hugged her neck with too much enthusiasm, and she curled up with them as they watched TV, all the way from Dora and Diego to iCarly, Spiderman, and Victorious.

That's the thing about Poochie's history.  It is my family's history.  She was calm, or maybe tired, as I carried her into the little room. I was glad I chose the unfamiliar vet. I got to hold her as she received the injection. I stroked her head in her favorite way, until she rested it on my arm, and she was gone.

The vet said the amputation would not have prolonged things. He said he thought I had made the right decision, and she was very worn out because "she went so easy." I was grateful to him for that.  The next day, it rained, and the sky looked like ashes all day. I was glad because all the people I know really need rain, and I was glad because all I really felt like doing was mourning the loss of a dear, dear friend. She was a good dog.