if dogs have a heaven

We put Sophie to sleep yesterday. She was lying in the shade of an apple tree at my in-laws' place with me, Andy, Bu and Nadia, the vet. My brother-in-law and father-in-law had dug a hole before we arrived, because that's all they could do. Neither one of them could watch. I knew that I had to. As long as she was with me Sophie never willingly let me face any danger or trouble alone, and if she was going to walk into the valley of the shadow of death I had to go with her. I stroked her heavy paws and talked to her while Nadia gave her a sedative, and later the overdose.

Bu wanted to be there. He refused to go into the house with his grandpa until after Sophie was gone. I don't know if we were right to let him stay, but Sophie was his dog too. He loved her and she loved him, and I thought he had a right to stay with her. We didn't do this because it was easier for us. We did it because it was the merciful thing to do for Sophie, who could not stand by herself, who fell as often as not going up and down the two front steps, who was bleeding from the nose from cancer, who had lost a third of her body weight. I can't imagine what could be worse than to look at a living thing you love and make the conscious decision to take her life. Now that I've done it,
the only thing that makes it bearable is my certainty that it was the right thing to do.

When Nadia finally said, "She's gone", I put my head down on Sophie's chest and cried, and I had the strongest vision of her standing there looking down at us, younger and more beautiful than I'd ever seen her. She lowered her massive head to nuzzle me and lick my cheek, and then she leapt up full of energy and danced off through the trees into the sunlight. She was free. "Sleep, sweetheart," I whispered into her silky ear. "Come back to us soon."