We had to put our little chihuahua down yesterday moring. We got the call at 7AM letting us know that he had gotten worse, and walked hand-in-hand in the sun the few blocks to the vet. I made sure he could see and hear me as she injected the meds into his little IV, and told him he had been a very, very good dog, and that we loved him very much. His eyes focused long enough to look at me, then he lifted his head to Michael, who was holding him. He lay his head back down, his eyes unfocused, and he was gone. Suddenly it was Paco's body, but no Paco. He looked like a limp, taxadermied version of himself.

We had had him for four years, and the three of us were a family. He sat on my shoulder at the base of my neck as Michael drove us to do errands. He curled into a ball and pressed himself into my stomach every night. He sat on my lap as I worked. We had a game where, instead of waiting at my feet to be picked up, he jumped onto the chair next to my desk. I rested my feet on the chair and extend my legs so that he could climb across. It was treacherous, his Indiana Jones moment every morning, and we both celebrated when he got to my lap safely.

I didn't understand how much pain he was in those first two days of his illness. I wish I had. I'm trying not to think of this as a failing of empathy on my part. About six months ago, I was seriously ill with what I thought was swine flu but was probably a nasty infection. Michael was out of town, so I was alone in the house. I couldnt move for 16 hours, and Paco lay next to me the entire time, liking my hand or resting his chin on my arm. He knew. Why couldn't I have known when he was sick, and done better for him? I feel disconnected from the instint that should have kicked in and said "This is bad. This is serious. Take him to the freak'n vet." I did eventually, but it was a day later, a day too late. This is not helping though. Time to just remember him and the joy he brought us.