Tasha 9 May 2001 - 21 February 2012

I knew it was coming, but when it happened it was very sudden.

Today I lost a family member. My little dog.

Our dog Leena was 7 years old, and starting to show her age.  We had lost another dog just before we got Leena, and we wanted to have a younger dog to help comfort us when Leena finally passed away.

The "pocket dog" craze was sweeping through Korea, and Won was in love with all things "pocket dog".  She wanted something tiny, 3-4 pounds when full grown.

I resisted.

I wanted a dog that was tough, easy to care for, and something that was big enough that it could get out of the way of my feet - I did NOT want to step on a micro-dog.  I'm of the firm belief that something that small should live in a cage with a hamster wheel attached to the side.  So after some research, I suggested that we get a Yorkshire Terrier.

Won wasn't sure, so I found a Yorkshire Terrier show that was going on in Orange County.  We took a weekend to drive down and catch the show.  We saw hundreds of Yorkies in a range of sizes from "Teacup" to 8-10 pounds.  I knew I could live with an 8 pound dog.

And the Yorkies we saw were gorgeous! Beautiful silky hair ("No, they don't shed" we were told. I had my doubts - but they turned out to be unfounded.) They wore bows and ribbons, and little top-knots. They were happy, and calm, and eager to play. We watched one woman put her dog through a sort of obedience course, where she had the Yorkie off-leash, and commanded the obviously intelligent little fellow to perform a series of exercises. He jumped hurdles, climbed ramps, fetched, carried, put down and then picked up again a variety of toys.

I was enchanted. And as soon as we got home Won started scouring the local newspapers for Yorkie puppies.

Here's the thing, a "Teacup" sized Yorkie easily cost $2,500 to $3,000. A "Pocket" sized Yorkie ran about $2,000. "Small" Yorkies were
easily $1,500. Tasha cost us $600. At her maximum 'fat' weight she weighed 10.2 pounds. Her healthy weight was right at 8 pounds.

We found a family in Fresno that had a litter. We went over and picked Tasha from the litter using our usual method, by disqualifying puppies that tried to chew on our hands.

From the very beginning, Tasha was amazing.  She was absolutly fearless.  She treated Leena like her own personal plush pillow, and would follow Leena around like a tugboat snugged against a cruiser.  Leena, used to being the only fur child on the premises, took it with quiet exasperation.

When Tasha was a small puppy, I would worry that she might miss her litter mates.  I got her a small stuffed bear to sleep with so she wouldn't feel alone.  But Tasha was fearless, and she soon found out that the stuffed bear could be played with.  She would pounce on it with all the ferciousness of a 12 week old puppy and shake it so hard and so viciously that she would get dizzy and fall over.

Tasha was so fearless that she would take flying leaps from the back of the couch or the back of the recliner as a shortcut to get to her bear.  And when she found out that we could throw the bear for her... well!  The game was on!  I would toss the bear, and she would race to catch it before it even hit the ground, then shake it until it came apart at the seams before racing back to give it to me to throw it again.  How many times would she do this?  I don't know - easily over 200 times before I got tired and had to call it quits!
Won was returning to school that fall, and we didn't want Tasha to have the run of the apartment while we were out, so I purchased a 4-foot high cage fence to go across the kitchen door.  By this time Tasha was about 5 months old.

The first day that Won went to school, Tasha stayed in the Kitchen, unhappy, behind the fence.  The second day I came home, opened the apartment front door, and found Tasha there at the door, outside of the Kitchen, waiting for me.  She had apparently climbed up 4 feet of cage fencing, and then down the opposite side.  And in doing so, she had somehow broken the first bone in big toe on her right front foot.  It didn't seem to bother her too much to have a broken toe.  She limped a little, and curious, I felt her foot until she winced, then felt her toe flop in my hand.

We took her to the vet.  It cost about $200 and a cast that she wore for several weeks.  The cast didn't slow her down one bit... she still wanted us to throw that bear!

This became a "thing" with Tasha - her fearlessness caused me to gasp in worry many times.  She would tumble off the couch and land on her head, and yip in pain while I was sure that this was it - that she had finally brained herself.  But she was tough!  After a moment she'd shake it off, and off she would go again, running at high speed.

She once ran through a park so fast that she didn't see a drainage grate, fell into it and flipped head over heels in a multiple summer salt, the stood up and seemed to shake as she whined.  I went running to her, sure she would be in convulsions any moment, but she shook it off and ran around me, thinking I was playing.

Another time, she was walking quickly ahead of me on her leash in a park, over a little bridge.   But Tasha didn't realize she was on a bridge.  There was a concrete curb on each side of the walk, and she had jumped up over the curb earlier to explore the grass.  So when she was in the middle of the bridge, she must have thought this would be a great time to jump the curb again.  She jumped off the bridge and dropped 2 feet into a little ditch filled with several inches of water!  We were all very surprised!  I still laugh thinking of this.
When Leena died, Tasha was so confused.  We came home without Leena, and Tasha spent a long time searching for her.  Sometimes she would go to the door and just whine for her friend.

Won and I had aquired a cat - Samuel Francisco, aka "Cisco".  Cisco was one of a litter of 7 kittens, from a stray cat that we had brought into our apartment.  After the kittens had grown a little, I let them roam around the living room.  Each kitten was a little smaller than Tasha's "bear", and so I watched Tasha closely, waiting for the moment that she decided these fuzzy kittens were "toys".  Yes, I was worried!  By this time she had literally distroyed several "bears", with most of them requiring minor surgery with a thread and needle.

But it went much better than I thought.  Tasha's mother instinct kicked in, and she started hearding the kittens like a sheepdog, keeping them from running out of sight.  Tasha was a small dog, but these kittens could walk completely under her like a bridge, and she would freeze there and let the kitten pass.

We kept Cisco and he and Tasha would play.  They would chase each other around, or Cisco would sneak up on and pounce on Tasha suddenly.  Tasha would push Cisco down and sort of sit on him, until he squirmed away and went somewhere safe.  I used to tease Tasha that Cisco wouldn't always be so small - but even when he outweighed her by 4 pounds, they would wrestle and play like puppy and kitten.

Won spoiled Tasha rotten. She would feed Tasha fruit, or tidbits from her plate, until I started calling Tasha a "little sausage dog", and the vet started warning us about the dangers of being overweight.  Still Tasha had Won figured out, and would beg for more.


When Won died, Tasha was my comfort.  She had always slept on the bed, and after Won died Tasha started sleeping curled up close to me.  We cuddled, she gave me something to take care of on those nights where all I could do was watch Stargate and grieve.  Over the months I went from numb to interested in life again, and I credit Tasha a great deal for that transition.  In return, I put Tasha on a diet, and worked to get her down to a healthy weight.

And then I met Wendy.

Over the last year Wendy and I have grown close. I proposed to Wendy on Christmas eve, and we will be married in April - just two months from now.

Tasha and Wendy adopted each other. And Wendy learned to accept that there was a little dog that insisted on the privilege of sleeping between us.  Tasha doted on Wendy and Wendy would take her on walks around the block.  Wendy's two dogs were jealous of Tasha at first, but they later worked things out.  Tasha again started acting like a little tug boat up against Wendy's big dogs, steering them in whatever direction that Tasha pleased.

And then something scary happened.

Last October Tasha started breathing weird, like she was gasping for air.  You could hear her little lungs make "gurgling" noises when she breathed.  I took her to see the Veterinarian, who diagnosed Tasha with Congestive Heart Failure.  This was the same disease that Won had, the same disease that ultimately killed Won.  I feared the worst.

The Vet said that she didn't know why Tasha's heart was failing, but that she could put Tasha on medications that would allow her heart to function better.  I immediately started comparing Tasha's treatments to Won's treatments.  Won had CHF due to a blown Mitral Valve, that was later replaced with an artificial valve.  In order to find out that Won's mitral valve was bad required a lot of equipment and testing, including an echocardiogram and a PET scan.

The vet had an x-ray machine.  If I wanted anything else, it would have bankrupt me.
The initial medication, a diuretic, helped.  But Tasha's symptoms got worse, and the worried vet added additional medications to support her heart.

Tasha, being fearless, soon got used to having to pant heavily when she ran and attacked her bear (by this time her "bear" was only a distant relation, replaced numerous times).  She would run and pant, and once she actually fainted - only to wake up surprised.  She shook it off and again ran after her bear.

We learned that she was water loading, that her heart couldn't always clear her lungs of fluid.  Tasha would start coughing, deep chesty coughs, which was an indication of too much fluid buildup.  Wendy or I would then take Tasha outside to pee, to clear some of the fluid loading.

This behavior increased.  Over the last month, Tasha started needing frequent pee breaks outside, even several times in the middle of the night.

Yesterday, Tasha ran around the back yard with the big dogs.  She fell asleep in my lap as I read a book.  She chased her bear.  Last night she slept between us again.  I got up four times during the night to take her outside to pee.

This morning, she took her morning medications, and went outside with me to pee and do other doggie things in the front yard.  As I left, she settled onto the couch to await the coming of the mailman (that mail slot HAD to be guarded!).

When Wendy came home at 3pm, she noticed that Tasha was breathing strange, that she seemed to be in pain, that her stomach was distended a little.  She called me, and we met at the Vet.

Tasha didn't make it.  Her heart gave out.  The Vet gave her something for the pain, and Tasha passed away.
I caressed her one last time, and cried my eyes out as I held her lifeless body to me.  I took her collar, and it is here with me now as I write this.

I hate loss.  Hate is too tame a word for what I'm feeling - rage like you wouldn't believe at the unfairness of it all, and sorrow, and sadness.  I'll never see my little dog again.

Tasha was fearless, incredibly happy, full of a joy for life literally until her last day.

I miss her terribly.

The Dog next door

Sometimes I need to just tell a story that's been brewing for a while.  This story has been waiting for 14 years.  I'm not advocating anything really here - except maybe human compassion.

I had lived for 6 years in Okinawa.  Won was with me there for just over 5 years.  While we were in Okinawa I was given the chance to stay even longer, but turned it down for an assignment to the United States.  We both loved Okinawa, and I'd still be living there if things had worked out, but we knew something was seriously wrong with Won's health, and needed better doctors to help us figure it out.

So I asked the Air Force to send me to Sunny Southern California.  Okinawa has a beautiful ocean and I was spoiled.  The Air Force has an assignment preference paper lovingly called a "Dream Sheet", and I wanted a place with beautiful sandy beaches.  The Air Force responded by sending me to the Ft. Irwin National Training Center, located in the middle of the Mojave desert just outside of Barstow California.  It wasn't quite Hell, but it does share the same zip code!

After a six months of juggling, we finally managed to get assigned to on-base housing on the Marine Corps Logistics Base on the outskirts of Barstow.  (It's been torn down, but it used to be right here.)

It was a nice place for base housing.  We had a place for the washer and dryer, a patio for the barbecue, and we were right against the desert so we had plenty of space to that side of the house.  Our water was paid for, so I spent some time making our lawn green and inviting, a place where I could sit under the big oak out front and play with our dog.

It was a duplex.  When we moved in, our duplex neighbor was in the process of moving out.  Within the month we got a new neighbor, a young Marine and his wife and baby daughter.  They had a fluffy white cat who never left their house, but would occasionally appear in a window.

We had said "Hi" a few times, but I'd never really met them.  We lived in different worlds, attached only by a wall between us.

Leena, my Cocker Spaniel, was a very smart dog.  By the time we moved into the Marine base, we had her for about 4-5 months.  By now she would already sit on command, lay down, go looking for Won or for me when asked, roll over, and pee and poop on command.  (Teach your dogs to pee on command!  It's great!)  She would give us "high five", shake, and put her head down when asked.  Like I said, smart dog!

The first time I spoke with the young Marine next door was when I had taken Leena out to do her business one night.  He came walking up next to me with a fluffy white Chow puppy on a leash.  He was obviously eager to show off his dog, and I told him he had a very cute puppy.  (All puppies are cute, in my opinion!)

After Leena did her business on my command, he and I had a brief difference of opinion on how to train dogs.  He was surprised that I never taught Leena to attack, and I was disgusted that he was using a Prong Collar on a puppy!  (I'm disgusted with Prong Collars in general.  If you use one, my respect for you has dropped automatically.  No, I won't apologize for that.)

The young Marine then boasted to me that his Chow would be the best trained dog ever!  He also let me know that a Cocker Spaniel wasn't a "real man's" dog.  Okay, whatever.

That turned out to be our longest conversation.  As an E-5 in the Air Force, I really could care less what an E-2 in the Marine Corps thought about my dog.

But I did get upset with the amount of noise he and his wife generated.  They would often have loud screaming matches with each other, accompanied by crashing noises as things were thrown.  These fights usually ended with the Marine slamming out of his house, jumping into his El Camino, and screetching off to somewhere in a big hurry.  He'd come back after a few hours and things would remain quiet for another week until it was repeated. 

From the few words I heard on our side of the duplex, I gathered at least some of the fights were about their pets.  Won confirmed this - she had spoken to the wife while we husbands were out at work.  She told me their dog was destructive.  And the wife was pregnant with their second child.

On a few occasions, our neighbors cranked up the music late at night.  I would put up with it on the weekends, because we were late sleepers.  We also got out of town on the weekends as much as possible.

But loud party music during the week just isn't nice, and I never allow it.  I'd let it go until 10 pm, then I went next door, banged until I got an answer, and told them to turn it down.  The Marine would agree, the music went away, and we'd get a good night of sleep.  At least, that's what happened the first 3 times I did it.

The forth time I did this (over a period of about a year and a half) the Marine came to the door drunk.  I told him to turn it down, and he saluted me.  "Yesss Shir! Shir!"  He turned around and shut the door, and I went back inside my house.  On the other side of the wall, the music suddenly went away and we could hear his wife yelling at him.  I don't know what she said, but He said, very loudly, "F**k him!"  Next the music came back, very loudly.  It had a pounding Bass beat.

What could I do?  I called the Marines.  The Marine MPs.  Loud music was against housing regulations, and the Marine Corps doesn't like looking like a fool to someone from the Air Force.  The Marines arrived in minutes, politely knocked on our door to let us know they were there, then went next door to speak to the young Marine. 

It got quiet very quickly.  It stayed quiet for the next two weeks.  The Marine MPs told me that they had informed our neighbor that quiet time during the week was at 9 pm, and it was 10 pm on Friday and Saturday.  Please call again if there is any trouble.

There was trouble.  Over the next two months our neighbor got drunk and loud again twice more.  Not just with loud music, but with yelling and screaming between the couple.  Both times I called the Marine MPs.  The last time, the MPs told me they had reported everything to the young Marine's Commanding Officer, and any further outbreaks would result in a reduction of rank, and possibly moving the Marine into the dorms.

It was mostly quiet after that.  Our tour in Barstow was coming to an end, we only had a couple of months left before I started out processing to become a civilian.  But during that time, our neighbor called the MPs on US.  Twice.

The first time, Won and I were sitting on the living room floor.  It was Friday night at 10 pm, and we were folding laundry and getting ready to go to bed.  We planned on getting up early the next morning to drive to Los Angeles and do some shopping.

When the MPs knocked on the door I let them in.  They took in everything at a glance, and knew they'd been had.  They told us that someone had reported, "domestic abuse" on us.  I had commanded Leena to keep away from the warm laundry - but not in a loud voice.  We were guilty of being domestic for sure, but not abuse! 

The MPs went next door and had a word or three with my neighbor.

The second time, Won and I were quietly watching a movie, curled up with Leena and a bowl of popcorn between us.  We weren't using my sound system - just the television.  But the MPs had again been called for, "domestic abuse".  They spent even less time in my house this time, and spent more time next door, talking to my neighbor.  It was Spring, and our doors were open, so I heard the MPs saying things like "false report", and "report to your commanding officer". 

Except for the occasional loud argument, it was quiet next door after that.

On our last day in Base Housing, there was one more incident.  But it didn't involve us.

The movers had come to pack up our house, so I tied Leena up in the shade outside to keep her out from underfoot.  I went back and forth from inside to outside to watch the progression of the movers, and to make sure Leena had enough water. 

Suddenly next door there was a loud shriek, and the sound of things crashing to the ground.  The wife next door started yelling, and the husband started yelling back.  I don't know exactly what happened, but I later guessed that their dog had something to do with it.

The yelling escalated, and I heard her call him "crazy".  I heard him yell about "that damned cat" too.  I went back in and let Won know the neighbors were fighting again - and she told me how glad she was to get out of there.  Even the movers made remarks about the fight.

I heard the door slam open next door, and looked outside as the Marine carried a long gun case out to the El Camino and toss it in back.  He went stomping back to the house, so I stepped outside to see what was going on.  I went over by the tree near Leena, and away from the house.

My neighbor came stomping out again with his Chow on a leash.  He got the dog into the bed of the El Camino, tied the leash to a tie down, got into the car and drove away quickly.

20 minutes later he came back.  Without the dog.  He brought his gun case back into the house with him.  I could hear clearly through our open doors as he yelled something to the effect, "I hope you're happy now!"  They shut their door and continued yelling.

To this day, I'm still astonished that someone would kill their pet out of spite.

To the Marine who lived next door to me.  I know better than to lump you together with all Marines, because I have known too many Marines.  Honor among the Corps is the rule, not the exception.  You sir, are just evil.  If you ever recognize yourself here in my blog let me be the first to tell you that you didn't have what it took to be a man, much less a Marine.  I can only hope the Marines recognized and rectified their error.

Our dog Leena lived to be 13 years old, and was always a brilliantly intelligent girl who followed my commands to the best of her ability.

Leena 19 Feb 1994 – 14 Jun 2008

I've.... had a rough couple of weeks. And I need to write about it.

I can remember when we chose to get her. It was the spring of 1994 – in March, I think – and my wife and I were recovering from the loss of our first dog, a buff-colored Cocker Spaniel named “Soju”, who had died at less than 6 months old due to ingesting rat poison. The apartment in which we lived had scattered rat poison around the complex and Soju ate some of it. We were devastated by the loss, and almost decided to never own another dog – let alone another Cocker Spaniel.

But I knew if we didn't get another dog soon, we would never be able to get over our loss. And I really wanted a Cocker Spaniel because I loved the idea of owning one of the most intelligent of the Hound breeds. So we went looking for another Cocker Spaniel – our only stipulations were that it had to be female, and that it couldn't be buff colored.

We found Leena at a breeder called El Shaddai Cocker Spaniels of Southern California – she was the first born in a litter of three pups. The breeders seemed to love their dogs a great deal – they kept one of Leena's sisters to show.

Leena wasn't quite show quality – she was a perfectly colored black and tan Cocker except that she had a disqualifying splash of white on her left front paw. I got to “meet” Leena's parents while at the breeders, and found them to be very cheerful and pleasant. We picked Leena because of her color (she wasn't buff colored), and because she was the only puppy in the bunch who didn't try to chew my fingers when I put my hand in her cage. Soju liked to chew on things – shoes, power cords, furniture, rocks she found on the ground outside. That had led to Soju's death by poison as a puppy.

The breeder was several hours away from our home in Barstow. On the way back we tried to get Leena to relieve herself at the side of the road outside of Victorville, in the desert sand. She found the desert to be fascinating – but was so well paper-trained even that early that she really didn't know what to do. In mild desperation I put down my new gas station map on the passenger side floor, and with "paper" on the floor she happily and permanently ruined a three dollar map.

She was so tiny!

Leena was smart. She was easygoing, cheerful, eager to please, all good traits of a Cocker – but she was really very smart. Potty training was a breeze – and teaching her tricks was simple. The most useful thing we taught her was to pee and poop on command – two separate commands at the age of 6 months! We soon learned to spell the word 'cookie' around her. We taught her gesture-based commands too. She also learned to roll over, but slyly learned to 'fake' rolling over if she didn't see a treat held for her reward. She learned some tricks on her own – if you asked her to find someone by name, she would (if she knew who you were talking about). She was your ally in any game of hide and seek.

She loved chasing birds and squirrels, she never barked needlessly, and she never complained. Remote controlled cars fascinated her and she would bark endlessly at them. She loved to chase a ball, but would always get distracted by some interesting smell when bringing it back. I soon learned it was futile to throw a ball, because I'd have to go and get it myself! So when we lived on the Marine base in Barstow, I'd gather a pile of rocks that I could throw into the desert that bordered our house. She'd chase each rock and then wheel around to watch me throw the next one. I threw them far apart from each other so I could watch her streak through the desert, running as fast as she could go.


Leena was an excellent judge of people – if she didn't like a person, then there was something seriously wrong. The only two people I ever saw her try to nip was our apartment manager and my sister's husband (now ex-husband). Leena knew, long before we humans figured it out, that neither were nice people.

Oddly enough, she loved going to the vet. Leena seemed to know instinctively that veterinarians were trying to help her, that any pain or indignity was merely incidental – that treatment was necessary and not meant to harm. When she met a vet she did so cheerfully, happy to receive a caress - and ignored the occasional shot.

Unfortunately going to the vet became a common occurrence. Leena developed allergies by the age of 5. They got more serious as the years passed.

When a dog has allergies, they don't cough or sneeze like a human. That would be an evolutionary dead end – literally. Animals that rely on their nose for hunting or protection can't afford to have their nose stuffy and clogged. Leena, like any dog, expressed her allergies through skin breakouts. Sometimes it got so bad that only a cortisone shot would help.

Leena loved being outside, but couldn't afford to stay outside due to allergies. She was allergic to grass, among other things.

When we moved to Fresno, I bricked in our small apartment backyard and planted roses around the border. I installed a doggie door so she could go in and out to the bricked-in backyard. Since she couldn't go on walks anymore, I found toys that would keep her interested and occupied. We hid treats from her, and she would sniff them out. I'd play 'hide and seek' by hiding her favorite toys. We would take her out to a park from time to time, but Leena had to pay for it with another trip to the vet.

I still took her out, usually out to the car where she would stick her head out the window and sniff as I drove. Our Sunday routine was for Leena to tag along as I drove to a nearby donut shop to pick up coffee, a donut and a newspaper – then back home to spend a quiet Sunday morning at the backyard table together. Me drinking coffee and reading as Leena slept under my chair. She knew our Sunday morning routine. If I overslept I could expect to wake with her on my chest, nose to nose, “whuffing” in my face.

Her allergies got worse as she grew older. She got her first Mast Cell Tumor at the age of 8 or 9, which we had removed. I had no idea what a Mast Cell Tumor was until then. The veterinarian said that it would most likely recur, that it was a type of cancer, that it was related to her allergies, and that surgery was usually the best way to remove the tumors, until they got bad, until they became internal.

The tumors didn't come back right away, not until her 11th birthday. Leena's allergies got worse. The vet said it might be diet related, and put her on a weird catfish and potato based dog food which eased her allergies while making her poop something truly incredible. I spent some time trying different foods on her and figured out she was allergic to soy and to wheat, both of which are often found in dog food. I found other dog foods that had no wheat or soy, and used those. The new diet seemed to help her allergies, and perhaps slowed down the growth of tumors. During all of this Leena was energetic and cheerful and never lost her appetite.

Leena was always cheerful - no matter what!

At the age of 12, Leena went deaf. Cocker Spaniels are known to have lots of ear infections because their beautiful floppy ears are so good at trapping bacteria and moisture inside. We had kept her ears clean, but her allergies combined with skin conditions to give the bacteria a place to hide. It was too much. And by the time we realized that something was wrong, it was too late.

Being deaf didn't bother Leena much. She wouldn't come when we called her anymore, but since we had taught her gesture commands along with spoken commands, we could still tell her to go to bed, lay down, use the bathroom, or go get her toy.

Her nose remained unaffected. Leena had an incredible sense of smell. I remember one night, long after she had gone deaf, she was sleeping two rooms away. I pulled a boiled egg out of the fridge, cracked it, and started peeling it under running water in the kitchen sink. Leena woke up and made a beeline to the kitchen, nose sniffing madly. She was so cute sitting there on the kitchen floor with her ears perked and head tilted that I had to (once again) reward her with a sliver of boiled egg white.

Becoming deaf didn't bother her, but developing arthritis certainly did! She could no longer climb on the couch or lazy-boy chair to nap – so I put out extra doggie pillows for her to sleep on. I put a heat pad in her bed. I covered her with an extra sweater during the winter, like a blanket.

About 8 months ago she went blind in her left eye due to a Mast Cell Tumor forming behind it. She was going blind in her right eye due to a cataract. She also developed a Mast Cell Tumor on the inside of her lip. But she was still cheerful, energetic, eager to please. She still wagged her whole back end when I came home at the end of the day.

But the tumors got to her gastrointestinal tract – finally. She started having trouble using the bathroom, and would throw up from time to time. Throwing up seemed to embarrass her.

I probably could have kept Leena alive for another year – perhaps two or more with aggressive chemo and/or radiation therapy. But I came to the realization that I'd be doing so for my own selfish reasons – not for her. It was time to let her go.

It was one of the hardest – maybe THE hardest – decision I've ever had to make. I put it off for two weeks.

I groomed her one last time last week, and cut her hair in the traditional Cocker Spaniel cut. I hadn't done so in several years because it's labor intensive to me and distressing to Leena. By the time she turned 10 I was only shaving her bare twice a year to keep her neat. But last week, I went slow and gentle and cut her hair in the most flattering traditional Cocker style I could. I bathed her, and rubbed her dry under a hair dryer.

I trimmed her nails and got her paw-print in polymer clay. I brushed her hair.

Saturday morning I cuddled her, and then took her for a walk on the local university campus. Her walk was so slow – and she paused frequently. She ate grass – and I couldn't help but think that it would make her break out something fierce, but I let her do it anyway. She laid in the grass and lolled her tongue, panting. (She's been constantly panting the last 8 months.) She “whuffed” at the smell of a passing squirrel, but she couldn't see it and didn't stir to follow.

I took the last pictures I'd ever have of her.

On the way home she tripped over a curb. I was leading her across the street and she was following me. I realize now she wasn't able to see where she was going, but she still trusted me to guide her. The curb surprised her – she tripped, caught herself, and then looked at me in a bewildered way that just about broke my heart.

Leena's nose still worked great. Every few steps she would find something new to sniff, one spot that looked to my eyes very much like any other spot would draw her to perform a careful, in-depth examination. And as we strolled past the corner store she suddenly pulled me in a new direction while sniffing madly. She had found a used condom! Despite my sadness I started laughing and pulled her very curious nose away.

When we got home she had some water. I fed her some watermelon. She could never get enough watermelon. She never connected that watermelon was bad for her – that it gave her problems when she used the bathroom. I'm not sure she would have cared if she did know... she loved watermelon VERY much.

Then it was time.

Leena was happy to see the vet. She walked in under her own power, on her leash, tail wagging and nose sniffing. I've said she's smart – she followed my cues and was able to navigate through the aisles of the PetSmart toward the vet's office. She 'lay down' by my gestured command on the scale, which said she weighed 31 pounds. Overweight, I know. I've spent the last year spoiling her, knowing what was coming. She struggled to get back to her feet afterwards to follow me into the exam room.

The vet put a catheter in her leg, and then gave us some time alone with her so that we could assure her she was our daughter, that she was beautiful, and that we loved her. When we were ready (and how could I say I'd ever be ready for such a thing?) we called the vet back in. He administered an overdose of Phenobarbital as I held her in my arms.

Leena fell asleep, with her chin in my left hand, almost as soon as the vet pushed in the plunger of the syringe. Her heart stopped almost immediately after. It was quick – there was nothing else. One moment my girl was happy, if a bit confused and tired, to be receiving so much attention. The next moment she was gone.

It was so, so quick!

The weight of her head now resting wholly on my hand reminded me of all the times Leena had fallen asleep on my lap, her head resting on my arm or hand. I lowered her to lay peacefully on the cushioned table.

Even at this point, my inherent geekiness and engineering training led me to think that it was like turning off a switch on a machine. Faster, in fact. I work on electronics that don't shut down as quickly even if power is suddenly and completely removed. And maybe my thoughts of this were a sort of coping mechanism on my part – because honestly the emotional pain was almost unbearable.

The vet told me I had done the right thing, that there was little they could have done to help her live longer with good quality of life.

Writing about this today, on Monday, rips the pain open all over again – but it is also cathartic, maybe even necessary for me to move on. I am definitely not okay right now, but I know I will be okay eventually. I can feel it.

I feel absolutely shattered inside – but I feel the jagged edges starting to knit back together too.

I spent the rest of the weekend avoiding reality, playing endless hands of solitaire on my computer with my brain in neutral. I cooked an enormous pot of gumbo that required two hours of prep time – and did all that chopping and stirring while on automatic... numb.

But I also did what I felt I had to do. I've packed away Leena's toys, her collar, the framed photo and AKC documents that have hung on my computer room walls for the last decade. Her heavy ceramic food dish was cleaned and dried and packed away in the same box, along with her polymer clay paw print.

I threw away her doggie pillows and heater. I threw away her special medicated shampoo, her allergy medication, ear cleaning solution, and antibiotic cream. I threw away her electric hair clippers. They still work just fine, but I threw them away anyway.

Last night I woke in the middle of the night to visit the restroom. I found myself stepping around a non-existent doggie pillow so I wouldn't accidentally wake Leena.

All that is left of my daughter-in-fur is photos, a small cardboard box of stuff, and some truly wonderful, awesome memories. Memories that will affect me and my actions for the rest of my life.

And if you've read this far, I hope you will in turn be moved, influenced, affected.

I believe that every life is like a rock thrown into a pond. The resulting waves spread outward and affect other lives. Big waves, little waves – neither really matter. All are transitory. What matters is that each wave influences another life or lives, even if only a little bit. And each person so influenced will, in turn, throw their own rock and make their own waves.

The height of the wave doesn't matter, neither does the distance it travels. What matters is how you throw your rock... how you live.

Leena lived joyfully, eagerly, cheerfully, and with unconditional love.

I miss her terribly.