It has been three weeks now. I am able to talk about her most of the time without crying, though I still feel the pinch. The intensity of the conflicting emotions has tempered: grief and loss were replaced with guilt, then relief that it was over, that the responsibility was gone, and now sad acceptance.

After the yearly checkup, I did not see anything but a continuing downhill slide coming. She had had the arthritic hip for about three years, this wasn't the first year her eyes were declared cloudy, she needed extensive dental work, and - new this checkup - she had developed a heart murmur, though not anything that seemed to need immediate intervention. I asked what to watch out for: coughing in the morning. No, she didn't cough in the morning, I said. The murmur, however, would lead to congestive heart failure as blood backed up into the lungs.

After I left the vet's, I started paying closer attention, not assuming or taking her for granted. On reflection, it seemed to me that she was starting to whine a lot, or my tolerance level was decreasing. This was not the whine of pain, but the whine of a child changing the rules of behavior, not getting what she wanted when she previously knew she didn't get it and accepted that. A caring friend told me she had snapped at her grandchildren on her last visit there. Her snoring was getting worse, and I couldn't remember an uninterrupted night. Now I woke up and listened during those interruptions, which consisted of Daisy hopping off the bed, shaking herself, snorting, coughing, jumping back up and rearranging herself. Ah, so she was coughing and I just hadn't been aware. Tic season was coming soon. Carpet cleaning was a necessity after five years on a beige floor with a pet, but why bother with an older dog? Removing the remains of a few isolated incidents certainly didn't guarantee a clean carpet as a beloved animal aged. Single, I had no one to help me when needed. There was the cost of care that was likely to escalate - both the care and the cost.

No one thing, just all these little things. Yet pile them altogether, knowing they would all get worse. It just all seemed so grim, so overwhelming.

I know there was a lot of good life left in Daisy. But I also know I did not want to grow to hate her for things beyond her control or mine. I decided to put her down, and that was hard enough, but then I had to wrestle with when - before winter? Next spring? The more I thought about it the worse I felt. What was the point of grieving in advance for months on end, going through "this is her last birthday," "this is her last snowstorm?"

I made the appointment. The vet agreed to a house call. I was miserable. I could hardly function at work. I went home early the day of, a beautiful day promising spring. I let her out, and sat with her as she curled up on the driveway in the sunshine. When she was ready to come in, we sat together on the chaise on the deck where we had so often sat before, she curled up between my legs, head in my lap. When the vet came, I held her and she gave her a shot to relax her. Daisy snuggled into me, so sweet in my arms, eyes loving me, so very dear it was breaking my heart. The next shot went to her brain first, I was told, and then the rest of her just slowly died. The vet left after pronouncing her gone, and I sat there holding her, and sobbing.

Finally I lay her carefully on the chaise as I prepared to leave. She looked exactly as she looked while sleeping and I half expected her to suddenly jump up when she heard me fussing in the kitchen.

I drove to a friend's farm. There is no place she has been happier, nor I, being able to see her running with wild abandon, fully free, to hear that beautiful bark in the distance, the bark that never failed to bring joy to my heart. In the car, though, she lay so quietly on her blankie on the seat beside me. I tucked the blankie around her and petted her all the way there. She had the softest ears. I wanted to call my daughter, but could not. My friend came running down the drive when he saw us pulling in, surprised to see us, grinning, calling out, "Where's Daisy!?" as I was opening the farm gate. I said she was in the car. He said "Cut her loose! Let her run!" I said she was sleeping, and broke down. And so he got the picture.

He was devastated. He loved her so. I did not expect him to be as grief-stricken as he was. He let me choose where I wanted her. It was the end of a glorious day and I wanted to bury her in the sunshine where she would always be warm and looking over the hill I love so much. He is a good friend. He helped me dig. He wanted to line it with a rubber mat but I wouldn't let him because she wouldn't decompose. She was wrapped in her blankie, but he put his jacket under her, and I laid her down on it, and he covered her with one of his beautiful shirts, because he wanted something of him to go with her. And we covered her and cried together.

When I went to see her next, there was a cow standing on her and other cows nearby, and I angrily chased them away. My friend said cows actually eat dirt, and her freshly turned place had been pawed over quite a bit, and was no longer mounded. I didn't want something to get at her, so we hauled more dirt over, and lay an old tire on top to keep off the cows, then trimmed the nearby thorn bush. There is a stump right there I like to sit on and look to the west over the hill, and now she will be right there with me. To tell the truth, I wouldn't mind being there with her someday, looking over that hill. That tire isn't going to stay there, once the field springs to life again and nature reclaims her. I hate that tire on her.

My house is very quiet, but it is not bad. The first week I did the little things I would do were she here - put the book back on the couch so she wouldn't sit there, waited expectantly a moment when I shook the peanut jar, ready to toss one. After a week I put away her food and water dishes, but I still call hello to her when I come in, and talk to her now and then. I suppose someday I will forget to do that. I can look at her picture again.

I believe she had a good life. I believe I was good to her. I loved her dearly. I love her still.  I believe I spared her - yes, and me - almost all the ugliness and certain heartbreak of the inevitable failings to come. I did what needed to be done, perhaps sooner than most would have done it, but I will never resent her, I will never grow to hate her. I will always be able to hold in my heart the vision of her dashing across the fields, even if on three legs instead of four, beagle-barking after the bunnies.

Marty Racheter, April 2008