I put down our dog Kaila today. She was somewhere in the neighborhood of 16 to 18 years old, which is extremely old for a dog of her size. She was part Akita, part who knows what, a suspicious, conservative dog who wasn't much for public displays of affection: No licking the face, no excited dance when we came home, no head in my lap. She showed her love of her family by guarding us.
Kaila patrolled the yard, proudly, wearing a track along the fence where she'd march up and down guarding against possibly dangerous dogs, joggers and squirrels. She knew I was pregnant before I did; each time she'd suddenly glue herself to my side, sitting next to me the entire time and giving "strangers" (anyone who wasn't John) the fish eye. While she wasn't overly fond of the kids, she watched them like a hawk, and God help you if she didn't know you and you came near the yard when they were out there. When I became ill with fibromyalgia, and her own arthritis set in, she'd lie next to my chair and we'd both sigh and creak together when the weather would change.
No, Kaila wasn't demonstrative. I knew she was getting really old when she started letting me rub her tummy. And I knew it was time for her to go when she stopped patrolling, stopped eating and stopped barking at the Evil Mail Carrier, which was the highlight of her day. She couldn't hear, her eyesight was going, she was down to just bones, and she was having trouble making it outside before her bowels moved. It was time.
So today a vet came out to the house, we said goodbye, and she died.
I was not the best "boss" for Kaila, and she wasn't the best dog for me. But she was a good, good dog, and she loved us in her suspicious, conservative way, and we loved her in our disorganized, chaotic way. And I will miss her in every way.
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