Up until the end, she was happy. She played with the kids and enjoyed her long, aimless walks in the fields. She had a real love for the outdoors and I tried to accommodate her as much as I could, especially toward the end.

But today, I knew it wouldn’t last. She could barely move. Her eyes were sorrowful and pleading for what she couldn’t put into words. She knew she was dying.

The sun was bright that summer morning. The kids had been sent to school and we were alone in the tall grass she loved to wander through. I lied to her. Everything wasn’t going to be okay but I spoke the words anyway. I consoled her because that’s what you’re supposed to do and it seemed to help. Her breath slowed. She grew calm.

I pulled the trigger. Again, to remove all doubt.

My eyes watered but I held fast. I knew it was the right thing to do. A doctor could have done it but she was afraid of doctors. I didn’t want her to be afraid. I wanted her happy and at home.

Ironically, it was the humane thing to do, shooting my dog.