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Rebel was our first dog. The decision to put him down was finalized when his chronic arthritis prevented him from walking over to his food bowl for nourishment. But as I found out with subsequent dogs that thrived under under my parent's loving care, knowing when to put a dog down is a terribly complicated decision to make.

Shortly after Rebel passed on to doggie heaven, we went to a rescue shelter that was renowned for liberating dogs from puppy mills. Most of the dogs from this particular mill were Golden Retrievers puppies. We were instantly smitten by one four month old puppy that resembles the puppy in those bathroom tissue commercials.

Woody instantly adapted to his new home, immersing himself into every nook and crevice on our property. He was a typically loyal Golden, much more so because of the time he spent in the canine concentration camp. He was particularly fond of me, never leaving my side like he was attached to my hip with Velcro.

He frolicked in the yard, making himself a prolific Frisbee partner. He liked to jump the backyard fence, but in a strange twist, he would immediately jump back over onto our property. It was his version of jump rope.

Woody and I became best buddies. When the family came home from an outing, he always jumped on me before greeting anyone else. Some people have inferred that I have providence when it comes to dogs. Whatever it is, there is some type of intuitive kinship that bolsters my relationships with man's best friend.

Even with all of the joy that Woody brought to our family, we were still troubled by one thing the veterinarian said on the day that we brought him home. The vet mentioned that pure breads, especially breeds like Golden Retrievers, are more susceptible to illness than mixed breeds. In the remote corner of my brain, I worried that a sudden illness would take my best friend before his time.

Woody passed his annual physical examinations with flying colors. There was never any hint of a terminal illness lurking somewhere inside of his majestic body. But terminal illnesses not only lurk, they can also instantaneously appear inside of a perfectly loving dog with the impact of a tsunami.

Shortly after Woody turned seven, I noticed a distinct change in his behavior. His gregarious greetings at the front door were replaced by him sitting on the floor without any emotive responses to my entry into the home. The high flying Frisbee act was replaced by a slow gait to a tree where he would do his thing and then slowly

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