By Carrie Jacobson

A week and a half ago, we had to euthanize our old Samoyed, Sam. We never really knew how old he was, but our daughter had adopted him 10 or 12 years ago, and when she couldn’t take him to her new home, we brought him in to live us. We figure he was 14 or 15, probably.

He was a sweet guy, calm and happy and large. He was also pretty much blind. We have another blind dog, and she makes her way through life so carefully that you’d never know she was blind.

Not Sam. He banged into things all the time. Once, while he was running at full tilt, he ran into a tree and knocked himself out – or at least, that’s what Peter believes happened. He – Peter – turned around, and Sam was flat on the ground. He came to fairly quickly, and seemed to be ok, but he’d been totally out.

He always adored our daughter. He was crazy about car rides. He loved food and cookies and treats of any kind. And he loved us.

The last few months, he couldn’t get up by himself. He became increasingly incontinent, and worse than everything, increasingly anxious. The back steps terrified him, and at the end, we were carrying him up and down. But he still loved food, and still wagged his tail when we petted him and talked to him.

We brought him to the vet, hoping for something that would help him. A pill, an idea, something to calm his awful anxiety. The vet looked at him and said that he was not in pain, but there was no hope. The kindest thing to do, she said, would be to euthanize him. He was not happy.

And so we did. I know the vet was right. I know Sam wasn’t happy. He was not the big, galumphing guy he’d delighted in being. I know the vet was right, and that if I had been Sam, I’d have begged to be let go. But I miss him with a grief that is deep and hard and sharp-edged, and I’d have given anything for death to have come, without intervention, and taken him away.