I lost my dog today. Her name was Jenna, and she was a Labrador mix, my first dog. About 40 pounds, but she was very thin at the end. She was 13 years old, which is something because I didn't think she'd make it to twelve. Or eleven. But every time she got really sick, she had a way of bouncing back when things got their bleakest.

"Don't fucking count me out, yet!"
- Jenna, multiple times in the past couple years

She didn't bounce back this time, though. I guess I got used to her doing so, because there's this annoying part of me that thinks I didn't give her enough time to. This shitty little bunch of in-denial neurons somewhere in my brain that tells me every few hours that she should still be here. But if you saw her, you'd know just how wrong of a sentiment that is. Denial is denial. She was sick, and she needed to rest, and I wasn't going to let her suffer just because I didn't want to let her go.

So I let her go.

Whenever she was at the vet, she'd look at us, me or my dad, the entire time. She did today too, propped her head up on the cart so she could see the whole family. Weak as she was, she turned her head so she could watch us even as they wheeled her to the back of the hospital to get prepped.

... I used to work at that clinic. I remember the first time a dog had to be put down on my shift. I had made the mistake of bonding with her the entire time she'd been there. She came in sick, but I thought it was something small, that she'd get a few meds and she'd go home. So I was her buddy while she stayed in the back while the tests were done. They found cancer. Terminal, too expensive to operate on, or maybe somewhere inoperable, I don't remember. Her owners decided not to be present, and that decision never bothered me until today. Because Jenna was looking for us, looking at us, did everything in her power to see us, and that dog all those years ago must have been doing the same and saw neither of the people she'd loved the most.

There I go, anthropomorphisizing animals again. I could never make someone be there. I didn't want my best (human) friend to be there, even though she offered. It's not something you want to see unless absolutely necessary. Jenna passed peacefully, but it's not peaceful for the humans in the room. She was too weak to hold her head up herself, so when the procedure started and she had to shift slightly, I held her head up for her, and she watched us with the same gaze she always had. I watched her too, scratched her ears, cried. I think this is maybe the third time I saw my dad cry, too. Her veterinarian cried too, she'd known Jenna for a long time herself, and I had worked for her for a few years too.

Jenna passed away a little after 9 AM, March 28th, 2014. She looked more peaceful than she ever had since Monday, curled up on her bed and towel. I don't know what death feels like, and hopefully I don't find out for a very long time, but I like to think that, for a moment, before it was all over, she was relieved. That one of those sighs was her and not just her body. That whatever discomfort she'd had, she got to feel it dissipate, and that she got to relax and fall asleep.

And I want her to know that I miss her, and I always will, and that I love her, and I always, always will.