My dog is dying.

I've never faced death.

In over forty years on this planet, only one person I've ever been close to has died.  My uncle Eugene was an important part of my life, but even then, in later years I saw him rarely. When he passed away, it wasn't real to me, every visit, to this day I expect that I might see him.

Sheamus has been in my daily life for six and a half years. Longer than my two youngest children. I don't know how to deal with his imminent demise.

He is suffering. My logical mind knows that it is best for him. Postponing the inevitable would be selfish.  But there are moments when I see the young Sheamus look at me, a glimmer of hope sparks in my heart that he won't have to go, that he can bounce back from this and be himself again.

Don't get me wrong, that dog has caused me more trouble than anything else in my life. He is a big oaf, a hair brained, over excited, trouble-making, escape artist.  I've cursed that dog more times than I can count. The destruction alone that he's brought down on my yard and house is enough to drive me out of mind.

But he's my dog and I love him.

Dexter likely won't even notice. Delilah will surely wonder where he's gone to. Caleb has more important things on his mind.  But Clarisse is taking this hard.  Harder than I had expected.  I guess she's never had to deal with death either, not since she's been old enough to be really aware.

My emotional mind feels like I'm giving up on him.  Maybe if we didn't have young children, or a limited budget, or a million other reasons (excuses?) we could care for him better, longer... give him more time.

But he doesn't need more time. I do. He doesn't plan for tomorrow, his life is in the now, and the now for him is pain and difficult mobility.

There are few things I will truly miss about Sheamus. 

But I'll miss him.