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At the time of this writing, you’re still with us. You’re sleepier than you were before, which is somewhat hard to believe, and quieter too, but you are just as sweet. It’s funny to think of how we’ve grown together and what you’ve helped me accomplish. Considering how often we called you lazy, thinking back to those early years, it is impressive how much we experienced together.

Remember how you broke through the fence to explore the neighborhood. Not once, but multiple times no matter how we tried to fix it? How you’d disappear into the woods behind our house only to show up later on someone else’s porch? But how you would stop in your tracks if out on a walk and run back home if you recognized your dad’s truck. How our lives have changed.

In those early years, do you recall how you’d always find someone else to snuggle with other than me if given the option? You’re by my side, now, like there’s no place you’d rather be. There’s no place I’d rather you be either.

I know I wasn’t your person when we first brought you home. You made it clear how much you preferred your boys and oh, how your boys loved you. Do you remember the first time they stayed away overnight; how you spent the evening on the stairs looking out the window waiting to spot them coming home to you? Do you remember how you paced in their rooms sure that they must just be hiding from you? If you could just catch their scent, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that they would jump out to give you a hug, the way they always did.

I do.

And here we are, faced with the knowledge that when this letter is made public, the reverse will be true. It will be us missing you.

It’s a terribly short time now, and yet, it’s been terrible long months coming.

To think, it all started with a bump on your cheek and the words, “mom, I think she’s been stung by a bee,” though it was January and bees far from flying. How that evil bump grew and grew while the ice and snow melted away as if once spotted it consciously went on the offensive.

There were days I wasn’t sure we’d even have time to be seen by the doctor. But you kept on. You were a rescue, a stray, a survivor. You were always good at finding a way forward, even in the toughest conditions.

Remember that time we attempted to keep you in a crate while on vacation and you bent the bars until the door was open? I do.

Remember how you figured out how to open the wooden shutters so you could see the street? I do.

Remember how you could convince your dad you could do no wrong simply by wagging your tail though you’d brought in mud from a hole dug in the yard? I do.

I’ve been keeping a running list of the things you love ever since your diagnosis. There was swimming and sunning. Remember the times we went to the beach and how you’d never fail to steal my chair. There were car rides and cuddles next to your brother in bed at night. You could never have enough blankets and pillows. Nor would you ever let us forget to give you the collection of treats at the end of a good day we affectionately referred to as your value pack.

I wish this list would never end. I wish there was more I could do.

We knew the prognosis was grim from the start, but we never once considered not trying, and for a while it seemed effective. But the treatment made you tired and unsteady on your feet. You were still with us, but it was no longer safe to allow you to sleep on the bed with the boy. I saw how you flinched at anything other than a gentle touch. And so your sleeping arrangement changed. There was no more rough-housing, no more tough play. Cuddles were crossed off the list–or at least strictly limited.

I hated that you didn’t seem to mind. To be fair, I’ve hated every part of this. But I’ve never hated one minute extra we’ve spent with you.

Car rides were the next passion to go. I don’t blame you. Your appointments were an all day, every other week event. We’d have to battle through traffic to get across town, only for you to wake up sore and very disoriented. Who would have enjoyed car rides after that? Even with the window open. It made me start to wonder, was it even worth it?

But then you’d smile a post-op drunken smile, come to my side, and I know I’d do it all again.

Remember how we celebrated the day of your last round of radiation with special treats, which I had to steam to soften enough for you to eat? You’d lost interest in the others. It was a far cry from how you used to run and jump to break sticks, or how you could tear up even the most “indestructible” chew. Oh, the damage you could do. You had a gift for destruction, but a gentleness too. You were always calm around children, allowing them to approach you first. You never lunged at anything but a squirrel, except on the rare occasion when food was involved.

That’s okay. I accepted this love for your daily indulgence had to be scratched off the list too. And so, we did our best find a way to keep up your appetite in spite of it all.

But then your teeth started chattering again in a way that had nothing to do the outside temperature. We learned the radiation had damaged the bone and there was little more than we could do. We were given more pills. You dealt with more challenges. Whatever it took. As long as you were still here with us, we were still here with you.

The weather warmed and we looked forward to swimming season. We brought your favorite floating toys out and to your credit, you chased after them once, but have not picked them up again. Remember that time at the lake, you wouldn’t stop fetching though the rest of us had long lost interest? I do.

It got warmer. You chose to stay in the shade rather than stake your claim on a deck cushion. A first. Another item crossed off the list.

Only during this time you weren’t the only one in the shadows. The lump returned, this time deeper in your throat and shoulder, where it couldn’t be as easily detected and we were finally forced to voice the truth we all knew, but no one wanted to say out loud. The time had come to address the one thing on the list of your loves which we’d never crossed out–your love for us and our love for you.

It hurts so very much, this mercy we’ve chosen. I know that you won’t understand, though there are times when you’ve looked at me with those big brown eyes and quivering lip, and I wonder if you do.

I worry that we held on too long. I wish we could have held on longer. The coming days, weeks, months will hurt for us. At least they will no longer hurt for you.

You will always be daddy’s princess. You are the boys’ comfort and source of pride. You know that, but know you will always be mommy’s sweet girl too, even if you’re also the toughest, most stubborn girl I’ve ever known. You’re still with us, if only in our hearts and memories, forever.

We love you, T.