Good-Bye, Kitty

I've heard it said,“A grief shared is divided.” I have found that is not always the case.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been partial to Siamese cats. So when my friend, Cheri Balgaard told me that theirs had had kittens, and they wanted me to choose one, I was thrilled. These were not purebred cats with papers. They were pets—the mother a modest homebody who gave birth to her litter in the garage and the father, a carefree vagabond with who-knows-how-many illegitimate offspring populating the county. The kittens were mostly white, as all Siamese babies are, with the hint of colored points to come and brilliant sky-blue eyes.

These were growing years for our family when a pet was just expected to fit in without a lot of fanfare. Our two oldest were perched on the edge of adolescence, and only mildly interested in the new kitten. Our 7 year-old son was preoccupied with our two rambunctious German shepherd puppies who matched his own exuberance for life. But our youngest, just five, was completely smitten with the new docile infant. Stephanie toted Abbie around for hours like a living baby doll, dressing her in bonnets and bibs and cramming her into doll strollers and high chairs. I have never seen such a compliant cat, which not only submitted willingly, but actually sought out the doll crib for naps.

Abbie made several moves with us from the family farmhouse to the big city of Philadelphia and back again to the shores of Clear Lake in Minnesota. She took infrequent forays into the great outdoors, preferring the indoor climate, lying on the back of the couch, looking out the window. At night, she slept at the foot of our beds. She hardly ever talked except the one-syllable question, “Prrrrow?” when we would come upon her napping. But she communicated volumes with her eyes—quiet composure and dignity were her hallmarks.

When Abbie was four years old, we added a new member to our human family. Victoria learned to walk chasing after Abbie. One of her first words was “kitty.” Just at the time when Stephanie was getting busier with her life outside the family, Victoria was prepared to play all the same games with a cat that her sister was outgrowing. Out came the doll bonnets and newborn sleepers, and the dreaded doll stroller for another round of Playing House. She would carry Abbie around on her hip and Abbie would ride like a toddler, with her “arms” hanging onto this skinny little “mommy.” On several occasions, she was very nearly loved to death. Why this cat was so trusting was beyond me! My husband Ron often said, “If ever there was a cat worth it’s weight in gold, it’s Abbie.”

One day, when Victoria was about three I heard a crash and looked up from my computer to see my disheveled daughter run up the stairs yelling, “Did anyone see a wet cat run by here?” We found Abbie hiding under a bed, completely drenched in Soft Soap. That day, she got cleaned inside and out.

Abbie’s favorite treat was to lick the leftover milk at the bottom of cereal bowls. She always used her litter box, never climbed on the counters when anyone was looking, and felt embarrassed whenever she’d hock up the occasional hairball. She was affectionate without being demanding. She stared into space a lot, thinking deep thoughts, I’m sure. Even the arrival of a grandson three years ago did not ruffle her composure. A few times, Cohen dragged her off the couch by her tail, but she would always climb back up and rub her head against his chin in a loving and forgiving way. She didn’t run and hide, but seemed to welcome his attention, even when he got rough.

When Abbie started drinking a lot of water last summer, we brought her in for an exam. A simple blood test showed that Abbie had only 25% of her kidney function left—not uncommon for a cat of nearly 16 years. There is no treatment or cure for feline kidney disease. The vet told us what symptoms to watch for and gave us a prescription diet to feed our cat. We hoped for the best.

In September, we gave Victoria a new kitten for her 11^th birthday. It was a Ragdoll she named Mimzy. The newcomer seemed to perk Abbie up a bit—if for no other reason than Abbie’s own self-preservation. Mimzy would attack Abbie’s tail, eat food that didn’t belong to her, stalk Abbie endlessly as the older cat tried to ignore her. But moments later we would see them snuggling together, cleaning each others' faces, both in full purr. It was a good decision.

Stephanie left for college in the fall but would come home weekends and look for her cat right away. Victoria burst in the door every afternoon from school and scooped Abbie up for a mutual hug. I, myself, was sick with a serious virus through much of the winter. I spent weeks at home, feverish on the couch, with Abbie for company. I noticed she slept a lot, sometimes in my lap, sometimes a companionable distance away on the back of the couch. Though she never got gray, she was looking old and moving slower.

Recently, Abbie began throwing up. She lost weight and seemed listless. I brought her in to the vet twice last week for IV treatments to regenerate the fluids she was losing through her poorly functioning kidneys. One night Ron saw her fall trying to jump to her place at the foot of our bed. He bent down and lifted her up himself. Yesterday, she fell trying to get into the litter box and I knew it was time. She was almost too weak to stand and had stopped eating.

I pulled Victoria out of school yesterday afternoon. She and I spent a couple of hours sitting on the couch, petting Abbie, talking and crying. Ron left work early and I picked out a soft fleece baby blanket to wrap Abbie in for her last car ride. She was quiet in the car, cradled in Victoria’s arms as the tears streamed down Victoria’s face on to her soft, dark head.

“Can cats cry?” Victoria asked me, her voice catching in her throat.

“I don’t think so, honey,” I replied. Then, tentatively, “Why?”

I turned and looked and it sure seemed as though a long wet tear was running down Abbie’s furry cheek. I took a Kleenex and wiped her face. We waited in the car while Ron went in to take care of the business side of our trip. He came to get us when the vet was ready. I carried the nearly weightless bundle in to the office, my throat all but closed with emotion. Victoria was openly weeping as the vet explained what she would do and asked if Victoria preferred to stay or go.

“I’ll go,” Victoria decided. She reached her arms out for Abbie and I gently transferred the cat to her. As I did, Abbie stretched out her “arms” and put one on either side of Victoria’s neck—the same way they’d hugged for years. Abbie looked right into Victoria’s eyes and rubbed her head against Victoria’s chin.

“Look how she loves you,” the vet said softly. Victoria showered Abbie with more kisses and tears before she handed her back to me and left the room with her Dad.

The kind veterinarian’s eyes were brimming with tears and her voice faltered as she spoke. “I know how hard this is for you. You don’t have just your own grief to deal with but your daughter’s too. I’m so sorry. Abbie’s had a long life—a good life. I can see how much she was loved.”

She helped me spread out Abbie’s blanket on the exam table and lay Abbie on her left side. Abbie was too weak to stand or even protest. The vet instructed me how to hold her and told me what she and her assistant would be doing and what to expect. I put my face right against Abbie’s, one hand wrapped in the plush fur along her neck, the other stroking her thin side. I didn’t watch as they inserted the needle into the vein. I talked to our kitty as soothingly as I could, adding my tears to Victoria’s on the already damp fur. In seconds, I felt Abbie totally relax. The vet took out her stethoscope and listened for a few moments. She looked at me and nodded. That’s when I fell apart. One moment, something is alive and breathing. The next—still and lifeless. I will never get over the sensation I feel when faced with that kind of finality. It is so other-worldly, so beyond my understanding.

Ron brought Victoria back in and the vet and her assistant left us to have a few moments with our friend. Abbie's body was warm and soft—so much like her still. I stroked her tiny ears and her tail that she no longer twitched away from me. We lifted her limp body up and swaddled it one last time in the baby blanket. Victoria and I kissed her soft head and we left. When the ground thaws, Ron will build a box and we’ll return for her body so we can bury her in the backyard by her favorite bush.

Grieving is such a personal experience. All of us feel and express sadness differently. Even though I felt much sadder because of my daughter’s grief yesterday, I am glad we shared it together. We spent a lot of time talking about life and death, about appreciating what we have in our lives while we have it and not taking anything for granted. I told Victoria I was proud of her for being willing to face her own sadness to bring comfort to her kitty. It is a lesson adults struggle with; not being too proud to cry, not being too afraid of emotion to express it. Victoria did the hard thing. She did the brave thing.

How we do our children a disservice to shelter them from the harsh realities of life! Our culture protects people—especially children—from suffering and death and then we somehow expect them to grow into empathetic, compassionate adults. It’s great if you want to get your child that new kitten or puppy! But let pet ownership be a lesson about life: Life is a package of happy and sad, pleasure and responsibility, laughter and tears. Life is not all about the Fun Hellos. It is also about the Sad Good-byes. And you can begin to learn this from something as simple as a cat.

The Doctor is IN

I knew I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up. I wanted to fix broken animals. Some of them I rescued; others I broke myself.
Throughout my childhood, I maintained an impressive collection of captive creatures. I hoarded fruit jars, Miracle Whip jars, and peanut butter jars like a miser. I was recycling before the word was invented. All I needed was a screwdriver and a hammer to make breathing holes in the jar lids and I was ready to add to my zoo. I spent long hours wading through the tall grass of the field behind our house catching iridescent dragonflies, tobacco spitting grasshoppers, crickets, ants, caterpillars, and moths. Other makeshift containers held frogs, toads, salamanders, and the occasional baby turtle. My best discovery was a swarm of tiny bullheads I literally walked into one day while wading knee-deep in a stream that ran under a bridge just outside town. This school of undesirables lasted for weeks in a fishbowl next to my bed eating nothing but dead flies. I made it my business to learn all I could about my beloved pets—how they moved, what they ate, how they interacted with one another. And more often than not, they died in captivity—a great sorrow to me. It was no wonder I was drawn to the healing profession.
One of my earliest patients was a Monarch butterfly. I was fascinated by butterflies—especially this species—that came in my favorite color: Orange. I followed them from flower to flower, impressed with the tongues that they could curl up against their bodies and unfurl to drink nectar. I had examined plenty of dead butterflies that I had extracted from grills of cars or on the sidewalks, but they were disappointingly battered and lifeless. Not at all the fairy bits of vibrance that flitted about our yard all summer long. One day, after loitering by a lilac bush observing the pollination process, I couldn’t resist the urge to hold a living butterfly in my hands. I caught one by the wings between my thumb and forefinger and held it aloft as it waved its spindly legs helplessly in the air. Its velvety black body, speckled with white, was breathtaking. And those wings—thin as tissue paper and…why were my fingers orange? Stricken, I realized I had damaged the creature’s wings.
I later learned that butterfly wings are covered with fine scales that come off on your hands like powder. But in my young mind that day, powder was powder and I knew just where to find some to replace what I had accidentally removed. I carried the butterfly into the bathroom and set it on the edge of the sink. It was a little tipsy and listed to one side with a single misshapen leg—something I hadn’t noticed before. First things first: I got one of the tiniest pinkie Band-Aids out of the box in the medicine cabinet and carefully wrapped it around the butterfly’s broken leg as it kicked and struggled—unaware help was at hand. I took a container of baby powder from a shelf behind the toilet and shook some onto my hand before carefully rubbing it onto the butterfly’s wings.
My patient didn’t seem to perk up much as it teetered there dejectedly; white as a ghost and weighed down by a bandaged leg. I cast my eyes about, looking for some way to cheer the poor dear up. I caught sight of a bar of Dove soap, stationed next to the faucet. Inspired, I stopped the drain and filled the sink with cold water. Then I set the butterfly onto the soap and couldn’t help but smile at my own genius. What could be more fun than a soap boat ride? Too bad they don’t make life jackets for butterflies. My first patient, who had no sea legs apparently, drowned.
Another memorable patient was a victim of domestic violence. I was on my way to my Gram’s house when I spied one of her neighbors outside hacking something on the ground with a garden hoe. Never one to mind my own business, I threw my bike onto the grass by the curb and drew near to investigate. The old man was chopping a garter snake to bits.
“Stop that!” I yelled with all the courage witnessing such carnage could incite. The man looked annoyed with this little girl who was poking her nose into his affairs but he paused in his brutal attack.
“Don’t kill it! Garter snakes eat bugs! What’d he ever do to you? Give it to me,” I pleaded.
With a grunt, he flung the grisly reptile to one side and went back to his weeding. (It should be noted here that I do not have an innate fondness for snakes. Oh sure, I had been known to pick one up on the school playground just to scare the boys, but the truth be told, snakes did make my skin crawl.) As I moved toward it, I wondered if the snake was still alive. It flickered the end of its nearly severed tail and I felt hopeful. Gingerly, I gathered up the snake taking care not to leave behind any of its entrails. I left my bike where it was and went straight to my Gram’s house, trying very hard not to cry.
“Gram—there’s an emergency!!" I called as I marched into her living room with blood all over my hands. "I need Band-Aids, quick!” Relieved to find the blood was not my own, she gave me the entire tin of bandages and shuddered as I left the house. My Gram hated snakes.
Out in the yard, I yanked handfuls of grass from the lawn and used it to line a small cardboard box. Then I set to my grim task; carefully poking the snake’s innards back inside where they belonged, swaddling it in layers of bandages. I knew I was done when I ran out of Band-Aids. I tenderly placed the half-dead snake in the grass-lined recovery box and went in the house for a cold drink. I had done all that could be done. All that was left now was to wait.
When I returned a short time later, horror of horrors, my patient was MISSING! Where had that poor, broken animal gone? How had it managed to drag its vinyl-covered body over the edge of the box? I combed the whole yard on my hands and knees and never did find it. My confidence as a professional was shaken.
I decided what I really needed was my own clinic. Imagine my delight when, one day on a routine tour of the back alleys of the local businesses, I was lucky enough to discover a large cardboard box that had once held a refrigerator. I decided THIS would make a perfect clinic. I dragged it back to my Gram’s and set to work with a serrated knife, cutting windows with working shutters, and stating my intentions in indelible ink: The Doctor is IN.
I felt it was time for me to specialize and so I began with what I did best: removing wood ticks from dogs. Gram had replenished her supply of Band-Aids, (thankfully) and I supplied my cardboard clinic with the new, unopened can, some Q-Tips, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. My first patient of the day was our own miniature schnauzer, Fritz. He submitted willingly enough to an all-over body search for parasites. Whenever I found a fat tick, I’d pull it off—taking care to remove the head, and then clean the site with alcohol. Next!
Dogs in those days roamed freely about town, unhampered by a leash law that was never enforced. I managed to coax a few of the friendlier mongrels into my clinic for a free exam. The sun was high in the sky and business was beginning to wane when along came Mike Nelson, a Shepherd/Boxer mix, from across town. I lured him into my box clinic but he seemed to find the close quarters a bit claustrophobic. The first tick I pulled off made him back into the wall, tipping the clinic on end and causing me to spill rubbing alcohol all over both of us. Maybe a clinic was a bit ambitious after all…
One summer evening, just as the sun was setting, I was outside in the yard enjoying a cozy moment with my dad. I was perched on top of our redwood picnic table, which Dad had covered with newspaper, ready to assist with the cleaning of a stringer of sunfish--a procedure that seemed an awful lot like surgery to me. Dad took the first sunny from the pail and laid it flat on the newspaper, securing it with his free hand. I leaned in as he made an incision just above the tail and just below the gills, preparing to fillet the fish. I watched the fish struggle briefly, then stare blankly ahead, working its mouth, desperately trying to breath air.
“Um…Dad? Aren’t you hurting the fish?” I broached.
“Nope. Fish don’t have feelings,” he answered, matter-of-factly, trying to finish his job before dark.
I looked at Dad’s face to see if he was telling the truth. I smacked a mosquito on the back of my neck. Dad kept working. I looked back at the fish. It didn’t look at me. I wished that fish could close their eyes.
Dad removed the skin from each fillet and put them into a pan of cold water to soak, piling the fish heads and guts to one side of his work space. When he was finished, he went around to the side of the house to wash his hands with the garden hose. I drew a thinly encased sack of organs toward me with one tentative finger for closer inspection. I craned my neck to see where Dad was and then deftly took the fillet knife and sliced open the organ sack. A tiny red object smaller than a pea fell into view onto the bloodied paper. It was moving. I leaned closer. It was a beating heart. I dropped the knife, nauseated, and ran into the house. I had nightmares for a week.
Maybe I was not cut out for a life of medicine? Maybe I would buy a horse and become a jockey instead?

A Bird in the Hand is Better

Every bird in Ashby during the late 60s should have been far more concerned about a pixie-haired philanthropist than any number of stealthy predators on the prowl. Back then, I could have taken you down any street or alley and pointed out every bird’s nest in town. No tree was too daunting—tall spiky evergreens, spreading oaks, and spindly poplars—so great was my zeal to keep track of the local bird population. My studies were not without hazards. I fell out of trees, was pecked, dive-bombed, and pooped on more times that I can count. Bird watching, Dawn-style, was not for the faint of heart. Yet, this was not a school assignment. No one paid me for my efforts or seemed remotely interested in my findings. This I did for myself: I loved birds and wanted one for a pet.

I spent hours watching the birds in our yard. I noticed that robins hopped with both feet together but blackbirds alternated steps like a person walking. I learned the calls of mourning doves and chickadees and tried to imitate them. I admired the oil-spill sheen on a starling’s neck and the sneaky way that nuthatches managed to hide just out of reach around the trunks of trees, hanging upside down as they went. I tore apart endless loaves of stale (or fresh if need be) bread and scattered it on the lawn to see who would show up for lunch. Then I observed where the sated birds flew to nest. For my real fascination was with eggs—that was where the fun began.

Naïve sparrows returned year after year to make a nest in the eaves of our neighbor’s garage. If I leaned my bike against the outside wall of the garage and stood on my tippy-toes on the banana seat, I could reach up under the edge of the roof and feel around in the dark, spongy dampness of a row of nests. I would grope blindly until I located the warm smooth eggs. Sparrow eggs are tiny, light brown and speckled, smaller than a jellybean. Robin eggs were a bit larger and were my personal favorite with their brilliant turquoise hue. One time, just once, I couldn’t resist and took a single robin’s egg for myself. I knew I had to keep it warm if I wanted it to hatch, so I carefully wrapped it in a Kleenex and placed it in the breast pocket of my jean jacket, determined to be a good little bird mommy/incubator. Bird mommies, however, do not climb around on baseball grandstands. Later that day, having forgotten my surrogate responsibilities, I was swinging around the wooden bleachers like a chimpanzee, hoisting myself up to the highest row of seats when…squish! I felt something hot and wet against my chest. I put my hand into my pocket with a sinking feeling…egg yolk.

I thought I’d have better luck with hatched baby birds. One day I was sitting on my grandparents' back step and I noticed a pair of sparrows slyly smuggling beakfuls of bugs into the garage through a ditch they had worn in the dirt floor. I sneaked inside to see who they were feeding and spied a nest up near the ceiling rafters. I pushed a spare tire against the wall and climbed up for a closer look. From the tire, if I put the bare toes of my right foot against the dirty windowsill, I could just reach the nest with the tips of my fingers. Then, if I tilted my head sharply to the left and ignored the shingling nails that were gouging my head, I had a decent view of four baby sparrows. They didn’t seem the least bit afraid of me and I stroked their wispy heads with a careful finger, brushing the lice off my hand onto my shorts. I worried that my grandpa didn’t leave the garage door open enough for the parents to come and go as they pleased and, because of this, the babies weren’t getting enough to eat. I saw how they fought whenever the adult birds came to feed them and realized they needed my help. Without me, they faced sure and certain starvation. So…what to feed baby birds? Worms! I dug around the moss roses in the side garden and found a few fat night crawlers. They were covered in dirt, so I washed them with the hose. The dousing rendered the worms a bit listless which was to my advantage as I only had one hand to hold them as I re-scaled the inside of the garage wall. I dangled one hapless victim over the baby birds’ hopeful mouths and gasped when one eager little fellow nearly choked to death on its wiggly, unwilling dinner. I quickly reeled in the worm from the bird’s throat and climbed back down to reconsider my options.

What does the mother bird do in situations like this? She chews the worm. There were some things I was just unwilling to do and I had to draw the line here. I went into the house and asked my Gram for a knife. She didn’t even ask what I wanted it for. She handed me a butter knife, for safety reasons. I plopped down on the sidewalk outside and set to my grim task. It is no small feat to chop a squirming earthworm into baby bird, bite-sized pieces with a dull knife, but I did it—brushing beads of sweat from my brow as I worked. This was a necessary evil, a labor of love. The baby birds gobbled up my latest offering with relish and, though I was pleased, I was unwilling to repeat the gruesome process. I tossed the leftover [relieved] worms back into the garden and wiped my sticky hands on my T-shirt. What else? What else could I feed them that would taste as good?

I returned to the house and asked my Gram for stale bread. “Just help yourself,” she said, pointing to the fresh loaf of Wonder Bread on the counter. I took out two slices and then checked the fridge. Protein, I needed protein to go with the bread for a balanced diet. Peanut butter? Nope, too sticky. “Gram, can I have some bologna?” I asked. “All you want, dear,” she called without coming out to see what I was up to. I made a sandwich with the bread and meat, carefully removed the crusts, and cut it into teeny-tiny, mini-sandwiches. The baby birds’ black eyes twinkled when they saw my dirty face appear above their nest. They dutifully opened their yellow mouths, sticking out their pointy tongues, eagerly anticipating the next course. Unfortunately, the first bird in line gagged on the parched entrée, so back to the ground (and drawing board) I went. Apparently birds lack sufficient spit for conventional sandwiches.

“Gram? Can I take a bowl outside?” I yelled from the kitchen. “Sure, honey,” she replied, engrossed in her game show. I filled one of her good bowls with water and carried it to the garage. I carefully dipped each tiny sandwich in water and climbed back up to the nest again, teetering on the wobbly tire, nicking my scalp on a nail, and holding my breath in the effort of the ascent. The babies loved their soggy sandwiches and kept asking for more. When I finally ran out and left for the day, I’m sure the mother bird was surprised that no one bothered to fight over the bugs she offered. All she saw was her fuzzy-headed infants asleep with tummies so distended they looked like they would burst.

Another way that I helped the local bird population was to teach new fledglings to fly. How they ever managed before I came along was certainly a mystery! Didn’t the mother bird realize what she was setting her babies up for when she allowed them to leave the nest before they were ready? I made it my mission to save the adolescents from hungry cats and untimely death against the windshields of mindless cars. I would make a pet for myself, teach it to eat from my hand and, in exchange, it would become tame flying back year after year to my bedroom window to thank me—maybe even sit on my shoulder and people would be so amazed: “There goes the girl that tames birds and has them eating out of her hands,” they would say. If only it worked out that way.

I guess I tried taming at least two dozen birds in various stages of independence. And without exception, with the best care a 9 year-old could provide, they died. My parents tried to warn me: “Once you touch a baby bird, the mother will not come back to it.” Naturally, I didn’t believe them for, to do so, would be to acknowledge that I had sentenced to death many, many baby birds with fickle parents. My intentions were noble—I fed each charge my special Oscar Mayer sandwiches dipped in water. I provided a nice cozy box lined in cloth rags for sleeping. But the next morning? I found the bird dead—cold and stiff, feet to the sky, just like in the cartoons. I cried genuine tears of loss and disappointment. I gave each a proper burial complete with eulogy, Scripture reading, and a bouquet of wilting dandelions.

As an adult, I am content to watch birds in my yard flitting from tree to bush singing their little hearts out. I no longer lust after one for a pet or wish to hold it in my hand. I am glad that God, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to make birds so hardy and prolific—relieved that one young girl was unable to single-handedly wipe out an entire species with her good intentions.

Wait...is that a nest up in that tree?

Remembering Kylie

Kylie on her 10th birthday

Most of us don't get to know in advance the time of our birth or death. They are just dates on a calendar that mean nothing until they become important enough to remember. It's a horrible thing when it falls to you to choose a day for something to die. It seems unnatural and wrong...

We got our German Shepherd, Kylie, in the late summer of 1995. She was 12 weeks old, mostly black with some tan markings, and over-sized floppy ears and paws. She was darling. We were living in Willow Grove, PA at the time, in a small church parsonage which we filled to bursting at the seams. Kim was almost 15, Amy had just turned 13, Michael 8 and Stephie 6. We had a small fenced yard for Kylie to run around in but I took her everywhere I went to socialize her. She went to soccer games, to the park, on long walks around the city. She was incredibly intelligent and learned quickly. We taught her not to jump or lick or bark without a reason. She learned to sit, heel, stay and go to her crate the first time she was told. She loved to ride in the car. Over the next year, she grew into a large, dignified black and tan dog of nearly 100 pounds and strangers on the street frequently stopped to tell me how beautiful she was.

When we moved our family back to MN in the spring of 1997, we had Kylie flown home on Northwest Airlines. I'll never forget the day we picked her up at the airport. They let her out of her crate and she raced to us, crying for joy. I have never before or since heard a dog make a sound like that. We brought her home to our house on Clear Lake and she got to enjoy the best kind of dog life you can imagine. She never had to be tied up and rarely was she kenneled. She had the run of our large, shaded lot and three story home. She cooled off in the lake during the hot summer days and laid on the carpet outside our bedroom door in the winter. We took long walks down country roads nearly every day where she chased rabbits and gophers in the ditches and was as happy as a dog could possibly be.

Kylie was an observer of many family changes. In August of 1997, our 5th child,Victoria, was born and Kylie took her arrival in stride. Since we had never treated our dog like a princess, she didn't feel upstaged in any way by the appearance of a new baby. She endured endless poking and pinching from a toddler without a growl or complaint as if it were her duty to do so. Ours was a busy, noisy house over the next 8 years. There were endless parties, company, clients and staff for our business coming and going. Kylie was the perfect hostess, announcing arrivals and then politely stepping aside. She didn't like arguing and she'd show her disapproval by quietly getting up and leaving the room if one of the kids were being punished or if some conversation between adults became heated. That's when we knew we were out of line: "Look! Now you've upset the DOG!"

Kylie was a protector, so you had better approach the house with confidence--especially at night--something more than one teenage boy had to learn the hard way. She guarded our house against anyone she deemed suspicious and once chased our tentative dentist back to his own car when he came to inquire about furniture refinishing. Why did he run? she seemed to ask as she stood panting outside his rolled-up car window. She killed skunks (thanks so much) and woodchucks that dared enter our yard at night and bore on her body the scars to prove it. She maimed dozens of garter snakes and crushed bees with her bare teeth. Kylie was a brave dog.

Kylie enjoyed the simple things in life--a good roll in the grass to scratch her own back, a nap on the porch--feet wildly chasing something in Dreamland, a ride on our pontoon boat. Once, when we'd neglected to bring her along on a family outing, she raced almost halfway around the edge of the lake barking at us to come back and get her. If we were out swimming in the lake, she'd check on us from the end of the dock and even swim out to us if we called her. Kylie loved People Food but manners kept her from stealing it either from the kitchen counter or easier targets, such as small children. Many times, she would sit patiently and watch a child with an ice cream cone or other treat just waiting in case something dropped.

Kylie was a good sport and was happy just to be wherever we were. In 2006, our family sold the lake home and moved into town. If Kylie missed the country, she never let on. With failing eyesight and hearing, she seemed content with her new apartment in the garage with heated bed and her own door to a fenced-in kennel. Rabbits and squirrels freely frolicked mere yards away and she never noticed. The past couple years, she was no longer bothered by loud 4th of July fireworks or thunderstorms.

Kylie was my companion. In her old age, she was content to follow me around the yard as I pulled weeds or watered the flowers or simply rocked in my chair on the porch the long weeks when my own cataracts were too thick to see anything. She understood the fine art of just hanging out--no distracting chatter--no constant nudging to be petted. She just wanted to be with me.

Unfortunately, dogs wear out much too soon. Over the past year Kylie continued to fail. She couldn't hear us when we called her from five feet away. She couldn't see my hand if I waved it inches from her face. Even her sense of smell was fading and she spent a lot of time with her nose to the ground trying to find me when I was right in the yard with her. She'd bang her snout into my leg, then sneeze, and wag her tail as if to say, "Oh, HERE you are!" She began to stumble more and it was an effort for her to get up from a resting position. If I moved furniture or plants in the yard she'd crash headlong into it. Just watching her ascend and descend the four steps to our porch was excruciating. But she wanted to be as close to me as possible, so I let her struggle. Lately, she had become indiscriminate about where she relieved herself and I knew I couldn't put off what needed to be done.

This morning, I made her favorite breakfast of eggs and fed them to her along with a few other treats from the fridge which she daintily took from my fingers. I took my time brushing out every inch of her thick fur while my own tears rained onto her back. When I got out her leash, she perked up like a puppy and cheerfully hoisted herself into the backseat of the car shunning the help I expected she would need. As we drove to the vet's office, I looked back at her. She was smiling, her eyes half-closed, face to the open window.

My last moment with her was to bury my face in the softness of her head, right behind her great big ears where the fur grew short and silky. I sucked in the doggy smell of her and felt my heart break. I couldn't bear to even look back when I left the clinic.

My heart is heavy as I contemplate all that I've lost today. It seems like more than just a pet. I feel saying good-bye to Kylie was like signing off on more than a decade of my life. Our family was so young when Kylie came to live with us. Since then, four of our children have graduated and left (or are leaving) home. Two have married and are parents themselves. Ron and I are older and grayer. His parents are both gone. It's not that I dislike change. Some is good. I like hellos and births. I hate good-byes and deaths. I am sad because you can't have one without the other. I miss my dog already.....