It’s been since September 15, more than two months, so it is time at last to write about the heartache of letting go of my beloved Amazing Grace, aka Mayzie.

Gosh, that German shepherd could be frustrating! I liked to describe her as my “high functioning autistic ADHD dog,” because truly, that girl was special. Yet even so, how could I not be smitten by her perpetual eagerness, her happy manner, her insistence that it was time for a break when I’d been working too long or intensely?

She got me out the door into the day, whatever the day was like, every single day of her nine years. We left the house first thing in the morning so she could do her business, and then often across the hours until one last time to scope out the night skies before bed. Since she left, I have continued in her honor to make a point of stepping outside to join the morning scene, but it’s not the same. Walks are not the same. Being in the house is not the same. It’s quiet, and still. There is no one nearby to raise her head every time I move to get up from reading or working. She had a shepherd’s instinct, and I was her flock. Even when I was asleep, her attention was always on me.

I miss that feeling. I’d welcome her nose pushing my arm off my computer mouse over this empty feeling any day.

Miss Mayzie enjoyed a two-year career as a Search & Rescue K9-in-training. She never achieved the status of being “mission ready” but when she was working well, she had some real talent. She had a reputation for traveling fast over all sorts of uneven terrain, which could be challenging for me and the flankers. She was sometimes a little too goofy, but she was universally loved. She was also breathtakingly beautiful, with silken fur—always popular at PR events about the K9 Unit when she transitioned into being our K9 ambassador.

But in mid-2020 some back foot toe-dragging started. It got worse until, in light snow, she made tracks that looked like braids. Mayzie was diagnosed with the canine equivalent of Lou Gehrig’s disease. I knew that the day would come when her hind-end capacity would diminish so much that I would need to do the right thing for her. Her symptoms progressed steadily month by month, as happens in degenerative myelopathy, until it was clear what I had to do.

A good friend introduced me to Heaven @ Home Pet Hospice, a group of deeply compassionate and caring veterinarians willing to come to your home. I made an appointment, then (thank you covid) had to postpone it until I was out of quarantine. Those final ten days were an unexpected gift. Mayzie and I were together 24/7, joined at the hip, limited by both her disability and quarantine to short walks near home. I kept things upbeat, and her treat rations knew no limits. She got lots of special attention. Of course.

Her final day was autumn-perfect. Sunny, with cotton-puff clouds, a little brisk but warm in the sun. She had a great ride in the car, her first in ten days—a favorite thing of hers. There was time when we got home to walk around the ponds across the street—another favorite thing. The vet arrived and we spread a blanket by the hole I had dug on the hill overlooking the driveway. It was a perfect place where she can keep an eternal eye on comings and goings here and how I’m doing. We gave her every last treat in the bag, and then a sleep-inducing shot, and then she left, her head in my lap. It was very quiet, very peaceful. It was beautiful and awful and all the things you feel when emotions are mixed and intense.

They say it’s what happens during the dash between your dates that defines the quality of life. Her dates, 8/22/2012 - 9/15/2021, were brief but rich. This dog, this best friend, well, she raised up the lives of many people who knew and loved her, especially me, her human. RIP, Miss Mayzie. Your gentle pawprint will rest on my heart, always.