The Best Dog in the World

It was a quiet little room, just big enough for a small couch, a chair, a box of tissues nearby, and a soft blanket on the floor. The vet was sympathetic and professional, explaining how it would go. "She may take some deep breaths at the end," she said, "but that's just her body, reacting to the anesthesia. She won't be in any pain."

Here, in this little room, is where we come to say goodbye.

These walls have heard so many whispered farewells. They've been witness to the stroking hands, the tears, the trusting eyes looking up at beloved faces, the last breaths and the silence. We bring them here, in their pain and weariness. We say goodbye and hold them as they slip away. We leave alone.

Putting a beloved pet to sleep is one of the hardest things a pet owner will ever have to do. The decision to end the life of the dog or cat we love, our companion over the years, is heartbreaking. It's the hardest gift we can give: to release them from their suffering and to stay there and comfort them in their last moments.

Her name was Coco. She came to us already old, with a grey muzzle and grey paws, mild, rheumy eyes and a gently wagging tail. Our two cats accepted her at once, recognizing that she was no threat; they'd walk by her, rub against her and touch noses. They'd even steal her bed; she'd walk in and find one stretched out, staring at her defiantly. She'd just sigh and lie down with a "whuff" on the floor nearby.

In those early days she was alert and happy. She'd trot around the yard, even chase after a squirrel or a rabbit for a little ways. She explored our little woods and brought back sticks. She'd stand in the door and sniff the summer breeze, and then trot off to roll in the grass with a groan of pure pleasure, ambling back covered in bits of dead leaves.

Her favorite toys were little stuffed animals. She greeted every new one with pleasure, and then she'd work away at them, gnawing off noses and eyes, leaving little trophies all over the carpet, bringing them to us proudly for inspection. You're a mighty hunter, we'd assure her, and she would wag her tail happily in agreement.

When she went to the 'spa' to be groomed and have her nails trimmed, she'd swagger out with a bandanna around her neck, proud of herself. And food was the high point of her day, so when her doggy clock alarm went off she'd find one of us and stand before us, not moving, until we'd finally give in and get up. Then she'd happily nudge us to the kitchen to give her dinner.

She gave and gave: her trust, her pleasure in every single day, her quiet company. When we came home, she'd come trotting to greet us, bringing us a toy, ears high and tail wagging. She was always right there, sleeping in the middle of the room, waiting under the table at every meal, barking at the door to be let in.

But in the last year little by little the tide ebbed; she moved more slowly, slept more and more, left her toys untouched. We'd wondered, when? How do you know when it's time? We could see the day was coming.

In those last days her eyes turned inward, preoccupied. She worked harder to get up, and she walked more slowly, her tail tucked under. I don't think she was in pain, but when do you say, enough? When is it time?

One night I heard her whining in the kitchen. She'd fallen, and couldn't get her stiff old legs under her to get back up. An offered treat gave her the energy to stand up, but that was it. Enough. We made the call.

We tried to make those last days special for her: gave her treats, made her special meals, bought her a new toy. We sat with her and stroked her and told her we loved her. You're the best dog in the world, we'd whisper. Her tail would thump the floor once or twice, and then she'd sigh and drift off to sleep.

And then we brought her to this little room, to let her go.

As the needle slipped in we petted her again and again, telling her she was a good dog, we loved her, wiping our eyes, whispering goodbye, until she laid her head down upon her grey paws, took a few deep breaths, and left us.

After all she gave us, we gave this to her: we stayed with her to the end, and gave her a peaceful, painless death. After she was still, after some last tears, we left and went back to a silent, empty house.

If you've ever had to make that choice, you know how hard it is. But as I think back to that little room and that loving goodbye, I know it was the right thing to do. Her last sight was our faces, and the last thing she felt was our hands stroking her. Letting the best dog in the world go, with our love.