Gracie Fagan, our dog
She loved to lunge forward on her leash, looking back at us with what we are sure was a grin, loving life in all her fluffy, eager goodness. Gracie was our beloved chocolate-colored Boykin Spaniel for nearly 14 years, a rescue dog who laced herself so deeply into our lives it was impossible not to regard her as a daughter who somehow couldn't speak English, but could speak to us anyway. In dog language. Felt with the heart.
She got cancer. And though she slowed, she hung in there. As time went by, we did wonder how a dog who was so ill could still spot a squirrel out of the corner of her eye and fiercely chase after it, greet us at the door with the excitement of a toddler and continue to take her role as our watchdog seriously. Though the sweetest of dogs, she was always on guard where we were concerned. It really wasn't until just her last 24 hours that the ravaging of her once-strong 23-pound body showed. Suddenly, she could no longer jump onto our bed. She couldn't bark past a pant. Her gaze became unfocused. And in the morning she laid down and couldn't get up again.
One second she was walking, the next it was no more. The end was clearly near.
I called the pet doctor and set a time for him to come to administer the final moments. Then my wife and I arranged for our daughter to return home from school. While we waited, I carried Gracie to the backyard, one of her favorite places, and gently lay her in the grass in the sun so she could have one more good dose of sunshine. Once our daughter was with us, we three sat on the living room couch with our sweet, frightened dog, petting her, holding her and telling her it was OK to let go now. Within 15 minutes, she was gone. In another 15 minutes, the doctor arrived with his lethal dose of painkiller to put Gracie down – but
she had beaten him to it.
This I know to be true: She had held on until her wee mistress came home, so she could be surrounded by family as she surrendered. And it seemed like she was aware that she only had a narrow window of time before the doctor came. She knew her time was up. She went on her own terms, and said her goodbye to us. In our arms.