You came to my door, a dirty little urchin, your coat matted and smelling like cow manure. Oh sure, you wanted to eat, but mostly you wanted those ears scratched, I couldn’t refuse that demanding nose. Then you didn’t come. When I found you, I scooped you up into my arms and you laid your little head back against my neck, pressing tight against me. In that moment you claimed my heart. I knew you were in agony and asking for help.

What a fighter you were, against all odds, you had escaped from a coyote, (the abdominal wound identified your attacker), and although critical you recovered from surgery. But at what cost? “This dog, can never be an outdoor dog again. Her abdominal wall is to fragile, to much tissue was destroyed to risk any kind of injury.”

You never got to explore off leash again. Our walks were your time to reconnect to the wild and free days of your youth. You made me stop for each new smell and pulled me off into the brush after a “something” you just had to investigate. Going in the camper was your greatest pleasure. So many hands to scratch those ears and trails to hike.

You lived well with diabetes for four and a half years, maintaining your enthusiasm and zest, even though you lost your vision and then your hearing. Not being able to see, you would take a flying leap of trust when you jumped on our laps, knowing that we would catch you. We logged many miles, on the road and on the trails in that four years. Finally, neither of us could hike any longer. Arthritis for me, and age and diabetes for you had taken their toll.

Three months after your fifth anniversary of living with diabetes you laid your little head back against my neck, pressing tight against me. In that moment my heart broke. It was time to say goodbye. So my dear friend and companion, thank-you for enriching my life, and teaching me about patience, unconditional love and living life with zest. There will never be another friend like you.