by Beth Bersani
She was a good dog, quietly going about her way. We would laugh as she peered out from under the table, or peeked around the edge of her crate. She had spent the first two years of her life in a kennel, resulting in her rather shy personality. I had always pictured Akitas as big and brave until I met her. Still, she would protect the house by barking loudly when anyone approached. (Of Course when people actually entered the house, she'd be hiding in her crate.) Over the years, she did get a bit braver, although she wouldn't roam the house like regular dogs, prefering instead to stay in her one safe room. She always loved children. Strange children could crawl all over her and poke and prod at her and she wouldn't mind one bit.
We had always known she had hip dysplasia, and with medication she got along just fine. One day in her eleventh year however, she completely lost her back end. She would struggle to her feet and stumble along a few steps, only to collapse. We realized the time had come to free her from her body. We made an appointment for the vet for that day. She was still a good dog, right to the end, wagging her tail at the people in the vet's waiting room. I hated to do it, but I knew it was better for her. She lay on the floor and I petted her as the vet gave her the injection. It all happened quickly: One moment, she was licking my mother's face; the next moment she had fallen asleep; and a few seconds later I felt her spirit leave her body. The vet checked for a heartbeat and then left, telling us to take all the time we needed. I stroked her head a few more times, then slipped the collar from around her neck. I looked once more upon her body, so familiar to me, and then left, wiping the tears from my face.
"There is no death" the trees tell me, "only life. It is all one big circle." And so I listen, for the earth is infinitely wiser than me. And I know that she will live on, just as we all will live on.