Early in the spring Quin, my thirteen year old black lab, slept beneath the table as I wrote. Suddenly he began shaking uncontrollably. This was his first seizure, the first of many.

He was placed on medications. At first he didn't mind. He would compliantly swallow the tiny white pill before a kibble. He slept peacefully through the night. But the ease with which he entered 'old-dog-itis' has turned into a disruptive resistance to further decline. Now he sucks the peanut butter off the pill and leaves it mushed into the carpet. He paces at night. He even urinates on the rug without a second thought (in his younger days he would hold it all day and happily stop for tummy rubs before making his way outdoors). There are days when his decline is not easy on either of us.

Watching him change before my eyes is heartbreaking. He's my guy, the one who races through the reeds at the river, rubs his belly against the cold rocks, rolls in sand, then rudely asks for dinner before settling in at my feet. He's my shadow, the one who always has my back, my conscience. We are connected in a deep way - he knows when my airplane has landed 60 miles away, I know when he sneaks out for a "midnight ride' that he'll be home soon.

Because I love him so much, after his last big-terrible-seizure as he was stumbling blindly around the house, we had THE CONVERSATION. I held his head as he walked by and said, "Listen very carefully. I know you don't feel good at all. There is no need for you to suffer. You can go to dog heaven any time you want. I don't want you to go, but it's really amazing there. The river runs cool and shallow all the time. There is a beaver to watch and some pretty green ducks to chase and a big dinner always waiting when you get home."

He settled onto the floor, his head curved over my knee. He was listening very carefully.

I continued, "I'm really sorry, but I'll need to stay here. Don't worry, we can still see each other any time we want...in the tall grass by the cool river."

He pushed his head heavily onto my legs, "But I love you."

"I love you, too, but you need to tell me when your ready, okay?"

"But I love you."  

I smiled through tears. He couldn't get off the floor; his seizure-legs wouldn't lift him. The little muscles of his face twitched randomly. Yet the only thing on his mind was the same thing that's always been on his mind; that he loves me. And he wants me to be okay. 

"I'll be okay, hound. I promise."  

Love and saddness, 

Sasha