It was about 8:30 when I awakened to her wheezing. She's had congestive heart failure for a year or more so she wheezes. This sounded different. More labored. I remember when I went to sleep last night I thought I needed to give her some Lasix in the morning. This morning it sounded like she was trying to get something out of her nose and lungs. I went to the bathroom and as my eyes acclimated to light, I saw all the blood splattered everywhere -- the floor, the tub, the sink cabinet.

I went to awaken my husband. "Tim," there's something wrong with Smokey."
He said, "She won't let me get close to her. I have been up several times with her."
"There's blood all over the bathroom," I said. "I think we need to take her to the Emergency Vet."
"Are they open?"
"I think so. I will check," I said.
I noticed blood in the kitchen and later all through the house.

I went to the computer and looked up the number for EV and called. A sleepy voice answered and told me they were open. The woman said: "There is an $88 appointment fee, and then whatever needs to happen ..."
I said, "She is bleeding through her nose."
"Oh, okay," she said, as if she knew it was not a good sign.

Tim lifted her into the bed of his red Ford 150, and I climbed in to sit with her. She was weak and tried to stand a few times to take in the view, but mostly she obeyed my gentle command for her to lay down. I had a green bath towel with us, and I like to wrap it around her head when I dry her off from rain or a bath, and then I call her "Grandma." She loves that. I was crying as the two of sat in the truck bed while I wrapped the towel around her face and softly called her "Grandma."

Once at the Emergency Vet clinic, I tell the attendant that she is bleeding and spraying blood through her nose. She takes us to an exam room. After what seemed like an eternity, and was probably 15-20 minutes, Dr. Barrett came in to discuss the issues. She did not beat around the bush and stated Smokey's congestive heart failure had metastasized, and that it would only get worse. The blood was surrounded by tissue, and she likely had several cancerous tumors. She gave us our options and supported putting her down. I began sobbing and Tim came to hold me while we both cried.

Smokey has been declining slowly over the years. She has had trouble walking, getting up and breathing. With the Lasix, she feels better temporarily, but it was a band aid. The doctor left us alone to discuss our decision. I said we weren't the kind of pet owners who keep an animal alive for us.

We cried and petted Smokey and cried some more. We knew what we would do. We didn't have to discuss it. I had brought my camera, knowing this might be it, I guess, somewhere in my heart. We spent some time with her, taking pictures, giving her love, and crying into her fur.

The doctor came back and we signed the papers to euthanize her. It was hard. The doctor asked if we wanted to be with her when she was dying. We said yes.

Dr. Barrett explained the process. They would put a catheter in her forearm, and give her a sedative to calm her down. Then they would bring her back to us. They took her from the room. She protested a bit until I acted as if we were all going.

When the attendant brought her back, Smokey was very groggy, and was making a snoring noise which at first was disconcerting until the doctor explained she was so relaxed and due to her congestion it was akin to snoring. We spent some more time with her, and she was so relaxed and sleepy. Tim pulled all 58 pounds of her onto my lap where I was seated on the floor. She looked into my eyes and Tim and I rubbed her, and gave her love.

The doctor came back to add the overdose of sedative that would put her to sleep. Dr. Barrett pulled her paw closer to her so she could administer the drugs, and Smokey looked into my eyes for the last time. She was looking at me when she died.

The doctor left us alone with her for awhile. We situated her onto the floor and covered her with the bright red and white blanket they had brought for her. I gave her a full body hug and Tim petted her again, mostly around her ears.

Tim opened the door and the attendant came, asked us if we were ready and when we said yes, she lifted and carried Smokey out of the room and to the back of the building. I wanted to hold her one more time...

Things we said:
'Mokey is the best girl in the world
Tim made her say: "Happy Father's Day, Fatty." Tim often speaks for the dog, and this comment from Smokey was directed at Tim.
"GrandMa," when I wrapped the towel around her head
"I love you," to Tim
"I love you," from Tim to me

The night before Smokey died, Tim, Smokey, and her had a bonfire in the backyard. Smokey laid on the cool slab in front of the fan chewing on one of her rawhide chips while Tim and I snacked on cheeses, prosciutto, and crackers. Tim taught me how to play a couple of games on my iPad, while Smokey lay beside him, and then we all called it a night. Tim and I had taken a drive to the beach where we sat and watched the waves crash onto the shore for awhile (until the sea mist became too thick on our eyeglasses!)

My heart is breaking. Everywhere I turn, there she should be. She followed me to every room I walked into. I have been cleaning the blood from the bathroom, kitchen, front room, and dining room. I have laid my head onto the floor bawling with grief. How will I live without my constant companion? I know we gave her a wonderful life. I always felt guilty that I didn't walk her much at the end, but I know now that it would have done more harm than good. The blood I have been finding after we'd walk was not from her paws like I suspected, but from her lungs.

Poor baby girl. She stayed alive for so long and was probably in a lot of pain. I am sorry I couldn't take your pain, little girl. You were my best friend, aside from Tim, and I did the best I could, I know that.

What I will miss and remember most:
how she would always get a toy to bring to the door whenever we came home
how once at Martha's and Margaret's house she had three toys in her mouth when we came to get her after a vacation; it was soon after that that we bought her a monogrammed toy pail and began filling it with all manner of toys
the way we, especially Tim, gave her a voice, and how it was usually "snarky"
her permanent place at dinner; under the table on or near our feet; we'd shoo her away only to realize she was back in minutes or seconds
how she like to pee on the new sod, and we would try to make her "go beyond"
how she sat, laid down and spoke for a "cookie"
how she rarely barked so when she did, we knew she meant business (usually at her dinnertime, if we were lollygagging, or if she wanted back in the house "NOW"
at night she slept a few places and moved back and forth throughout the night: to the bathroom doorway, then the coolest part of the bathroom tile near the commode and tub, and back to the front room in her "house"
how she nuzzled very assertively for loving -- up to the last moments of her life as she lay on my lap dying
her soulful eyes that were always filled with love and loyalty
the night she bit me, when I startled her by going toward her eyes trying to remove sleep from them; she knew she'd hurt me and ran to her house; when I came home from the hospital, she respected my need to be tentative with her
Tim pulling her onto my lap as she was dying so I could hold her, and then gently taking her off of my legs so I could get up from the floor after she had died
hearing her clickety-clack paw-steps through the house each and every day for the last 13 years

She changed our lives and we will remember her forever. Thank you Smokey for all the joy you have brought and so freely given to us.