Lily was not the smartest dog in the world. On the block, even. But she had a lot of energy and a very sweet nature. She wouldn't fetch. Frisbees confounded her. She had waaaay too much hair. She wanted to be very, very close to whomever would pet her, even if they protested, "Please! You are a very nice dog but it is 95 degrees out and 100% humidity and 50% of that is your incredible dogbreath. Gah!" (Gah is the sound of aspirated fluff. She had two kinds of fur: a combable hairy top coat that crinkled up when wet and an unending supply of weightless fleece. You could reach in and pull out handful after handful and it would float away like furry puffs of smoke.) She was never friendly to other dogs when we met them on walks, but she liked Smarty, the next-door neighbor dog, and she tolerated guest dogs reasonably well. She liked people of all sizes, even extra-small people who would grab the occasional fistful of eyebrow and tug.
So I liked my dog. And when she started to decline over the past few weeks I kept thinking that if she got truly miserable then I would have to, well, kill her. So yesterday she was truly miserable and I really wish that I had taken her a day earlier but at least it's all done now.