There is no comfort in death, only the empirical knowledge that, in some instances, suffering has ended. Gina was found locked in a shed with no light in February 1993. We were led to her by an ad in a local Seattle newspaper: "Pups for sale, $50 cash only." When the door to the shed was opened, out she popped with her brother - the last two of the litter left. Gina had red fur, her brother's, black. They both looked like dandelion fluff with legs. The owner told us they were half chow, half akita. We wanted dogs, but could only afford one. Mel chose Gina.

Gina has been with us for almost as long as we have been married: 14 years. And she has survived against all odds with pancreatitis for 13 of those 14 years. She has been bad dog, good dog, foul dog, excellent dog, and queen dog at various times; but a wonderful dog always. She has traveled this country far and wide with us in our cars and chased many varieties of squirrels, cows, cats, coyotes and other dogs. But lately, she became aging, ailing dog. Suffering dog...our...dog. Sunka waste (shoonka washtay) - "good dog" in Lakota - at every level. Mel is Lakota, you see. To us, Gina is as much a spirit as any human being. She breathes the life the Creator gave her and so is honored as any living creature.

Over the years since Gina came into our home, we have adopted  several animals short of an ark's worth: four cats and three dogs. We love all, but Gina was the first.

Last Thursday, Gina refused to walk and has not been on her four legs since. I was so torn because she scarfed down her food and drank lots of water, but would not walk. An infection developed within a couple of days and yesterday we finally got her in to see a local vet. We were prepared for the worse, but you can never really prepare.

And the worse came.

I held her head as the vet injected her with Euthanol. She had a spinal lesion, you see. At 14, surgery was a long shot; and her muscles had atrophied so that even was she to survive the surgery, she would never be able to really walk again. I whispered in her ear, "I love you...we love you, my beautiful girl." Less than a second later, she stopped breathing, snap, just so. She was ready to move on. I, on the other hand, was not. Mel was not.

We took her body home and buried her this morning in a pretty spot - a clearing with four trees, her head pointing west. Wrapped in a pretty blanket, God she was so loved.

I dreamt of her last night - running from the cool shed where she awaited burial up the driveway - young again. Barking and happy. It made me happy but cannot stop the yearning - the yearning to smell the fresh, springlike air in her soft dandelion-fluff fur; hear her whine happily to see us when we come home from work; and to hold her again in a state other than death.