I'd never had to put a dog down until Monday. That's when Rainey, our 15-year-old pit mix, an intelligent pup with the softest fur in the world and a predilection for beer, left us.
We had five days to process the news. Mounting health problems had wasted a 50-pound dog down to 35, her spine poking through her coat like tent poles. She ate less and less and drank more and more, putting unreasonable pressure on an already weakened bladder. Her legs got shaky, her panting lilted upward with every breath, a series of quiet whines. Her confident stride gave way to measured steps.