Yesterday, something changed in our big, old dog.

No matter what we did, he was not comfortable.

Medications were less effective for less and less time.

Texts and phone calls between myself and the love of Monty’s life (his vet, Laura Berkowitz) had us shifting dosages and times, to no avail.

What was once given every 12 hours, then every eight, then doubled, was not helping.

I called Monty’s Boy in New Orleans and we cried as we made the decision.

I called Laura back, and she told me she would come in any time we needed her. She would be there for her Monty.

So we chose a time.

We couldn’t set up a ‘best day’ for Monty, who’s best day would have included walking outside and smelling anything and everything, followed by basking in the warm sun (preferably while lying in snow).  The pain in his leg was just too much.

So we did the next best thing.

We set up a FaceTime session with Sam, and held the phone’s screen up and Sam said his name, and then I said Sammy’s name , and Monty woofed and hooted, as he has since he came into our house almost ten years ago.

Then John cooked up more than a pound of steak and cut it up, and Monty just couldn’t believe it was all for him.

He licked that damned plate clean.

And we snuggled him and talked with tightened throats and halting voices.

And Granny and Grampa came over and they did the same.

And then it was time.

We were taken in right away. Everyone knows the Six-Million-Dollar-Dog at Pepperell Veterinary Hospital.

Laura and I laid down on the floor with him, she on one side, and me on the other. We snuggled and talked and she got out her best and freshest treats and he gobbled them up and I smiled.

I knew he wouldn’t lose his appetite.

And I knew his tail would thump until the end no matter what.

And it totally did.

Godspeed, Monty Dingle.

I’ll bet your Joy Angel was so happy to meet you, you big goof.

And I hope his name is ‘Sammy’, because you love that name.

You were a good, good boy.

Thanks for readin’.

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