On Wednesday we said goodbye to our dear buddy Ted, who was only five years old and had lymphoma. That morning he didn't want to get up, and could hardly be enticed to move, even with the offer of one of his favourite things: a visit to our yard to play with Rosie.
Ted was a good boy, an enormous sweetheart of a dog who could be a pain in the butt, but was very dear to us. He loved to come over and look at the chickens, who fascinated him.
And he felt very at home in our house, from numerous daylong play sessions on weekends to the occasional overnight stay (when his people had a baby, and when they went on vacation).
At the very end he was sad and sick and miserable, and we're all glad that at least he didn't have to suffer.
We've agreed that Ted will be buried in our yard, once his ashes are returned. I chose the spot by the gate where he always peed as he arrived. The gate meant good things for Ted: coming into the yard to play at the beginning of the day, and leaving to go home and eat and lie down after a long day of fun.