Yesterday he ate a cheeseburger from McD's but this morning, he
refused. Tonight brought the same story, the refusal. I looked at him
and said Z, you couldn't tell me any louder that you were ready.

Val and I went up with him. On the way up I explained to Val what was
going to happen, how Z wouldn't be coming home with us, how we couldn't
help him any more except for this one way.

When we walked in, I carried him while she walked beside me. A nice
woman in the waiting room heard me tell the receptionists that I had
Zeus here, she said oh, Zeus isn't looking too good. Right, I thought
but what I said was 'we're here to euthanize him.'

I waited only a minute then they led us back through the ICU where Z was
saved a few years ago into a quiet room where I guess, this sort of
thing goes on. There were pamphlets for the pet cemetary and even cards
from a psychotherapist. And kleenex, boxes and boxes of it.

The doctor came in shortly after I'd answered Val's 8000 questions about
what we were doing there. She was the one who'd saved him from the
granola, she'd become his doc after that. One look at him and she told
me there's no way she'd try to talk me out of it, that it's our duty
when we take these animals into our lives to help them go when there's
nothing left to do.

She explained to Val that they'd done all they could to try and make him
feel better but that sometimes this is the last thing you can do. When
they injected the drug, it was over before all the medicine was in. He
was gone.

I couldn't stay afterwards. With Ellie, with Al, with Gus, we lingered
but with Z, I just couldn't. I think I'd said all my goodbyes over the
last month. The vet helped me cover him and Val and I left through the
side door.

Of course Val had to go potty while we were having a cuddle in the
parking lot so we had to come back in, go past the people we'd seen on
the way in, only this time we had no dog with us. Finally, we headed
home, Zeus' collar in my hand.

It's on top of Gus' ashes now. We'll put Zeus' up there too when we
pick them up.

Farewell sweet boy. Thanks for almost 8 years of your one bark, but 100
snores, of your silly half-mast tail, your resistance to all things,
your place in this family. That place is empty now but there will
always be a place for you in our hearts.

I can only hope that you're at peace now, trotting around with Gus while
Alice refuses to acknowledge the lot of you.