I have a picture on my desk of my dog. I don't keep photos of the kids. I should, but it's something I didn't do before, and while I have them at home, I just don't do it here at work. But I have a photo of Bear, stuck in a gaudy green magnetic "My Dog Is Incredible" frame I got for signing up for a newsletter. The photo was taken back in Greenfield, probably in '97 or '98. She was maybe three years old, tops. I used to joke with people that she liked that picture best, because it was taken when she still had her girlish figure and she didn't weigh the 120 she did five years later. She's all smiles, contented lounging on the floor, ears perked up. It's the way I want to remember her, full of life, contentment, and just happy to be a part of the family.

Today was a rough day. I didn't want to do it. But I knew it was really past time, and that nothing the vet could do could undo aging. She was 13, her hips and muscle mass was fading fast, and she hurt all the time. We finally made the call yesterday to schedule the final appointment. She didn't sleep last night - she kept banging her head against the bed and the floor, twitching as if she were having seizures. When we came home at lunch she was alseep in the kitchen, and I realized just how gaunt she had gotten. It took nearly ten minutes to walk her off the deck and get her into the car. No hopping up - those days were long past. The vet and her assistant were kind, and took care of her as if she were their own dog. It wasn't easy for me, or for Michael, but we're glad the suffering is over.

If there is a dog heaven, then there's a beautiful white shepherd there today, chasing squirrels and running through the sprinkler system, all smiles, and happy.

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