Strider's last journey 14 December 1991 (unpublished) When I think about the times he has fallen and been unable to get up, it's easier to realize why Strider has to take this trip. I remember the times he has paced endlessly through the house, panting, because it hurt too much to lie down, and I understand why it is my obligation to help him feel better. With his bladder and his bowel no longer his to control, he spends too much of his life in sheepish embarrassment, hiding from the behavior he couldn't control. His tail never wags any more; his trademark floppy ears seldom perk up during the walks he used to relish so thoroughly. After all these years together, I fancy I can read the emotions on his face as clearly as I could another human. Too often now what I see is pain or embarrassment or longing; too seldom do I see the joy or alacrity that defined him. I know Strider doesn't fear the end of the road. He hasn't spent weeks in anticipation, as we have. His simple goodness insulates him from the doubt and uncertainity and recrimination that have punctuated this decision for us. His has been a life of straightforward, honest responses, and that is how it will end for him in another hour. Fortunately, even the last moments are likely to be pleasant for Strider; he likes the vet and isn't upset by visits there. With so much of his puppyhood spent in there, the veternarian his friend, he enters the clinic without fear Ñindeed, with anticipation. He will pass from consciousness to ... other ... without an instant of trauma or pain. . . . Later that day: Leaving my boy there was as hard as I imagined. The vet was splendid; our discussion of goddesses and reincarnation and the inate goodness of dogs was helpful. The tears were helpful. Time, I know from experience, will be helpful. For the short term, there is only loss. I am grateful to have it unalloyed with guilt or doubt, but it is a powerful thing all by itself. I wish it were not so.