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When our 11 year old Shepherd/Lab mix lost her desire to play, we knew something wasn't right; she was always ready to chase a Frisbee into the neighbor's yard. Then we noticed her normal gait laced with a little clumsiness. But she was still so vibrant and alert! We had a hard time accepting that something could really be wrong. Then she stopped eating and we knew it was time to face our fears.

The doctor conducted several tests while we waited. Naturally we assumed something simple, like a toothache or a sore foot. In no way were we prepared for what the doctor was going to hit us with. He went over the test results and rattled off a few options, one of which he said should be implemented immediately. I glanced over to the dog laying helplessly on the exam-table, and my eyes began to water.

The tests concluded that she had liver failure. Surgery wasn't an option, and the medicinal aids were nothing to get excited about. They would alleviate some of her pain, but they would only help to improve the quality of her life, not prolong it.

We took her home and cared for her like a child. She was, after all, a member of the family. A helpless baby who needed constant supervision. We provided that. In return for the love and devotion she'd given us over the years, it was a small, albeit heartbreaking, price to pay.

The next few weeks were horrible. An absolute roller coaster of emotion. We'd watch her health improve, then decline, then improve again. We
thought she might be making a miraculous recovery. But when our once-big dog weighed in at 35 pounds, we knew she was only getting worse. She couldn't stand up without falling over, and when she did, she couldn't get up again. There was so much pain in her eyes we could barely stand to look at her. This affliction was killing all of us.

It was Thursday, March 1st , 2007. Her transition was scheduled to take place that evening, and I'm pretty sure she knew it. There was always something quite human about her ability to communicate and express her understanding. That's why I was sure she knew it was coming. And that made it even harder on me.

After the rest of the family had gone, the dog and I settled in on the couch. This is where we spent our final hours together, and they passed much too quickly. She stretched her neck as far as she could and rested her chin on my lap. I tried not to cry, but knowing this would be the last time I'd ever stroke her back made it impossible. Between my breathtaking sobs, I made sure to tell

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