The dog is gone.
The dog has died.
It was quick. Sort of. A couple of weeks of off behavior.
The vet told us a couple of years ago that she was very old. We changed some things in her life, made some adjustments. Bought dog toys again. Oldest became wary and passed her many many little treats over this past two years: little bits of bacon, fresh fruit, a little pork.
We bought her some very fancy canned food about a month ago and it proved to be too much for her. Not that it killed her, but it was too rich, I think.
She wasn't well.
Finally, this week, she stopped eating and drinking and nothing could be made right for her. I, yes I, fed her water from an eye dropper.
She stayed on her delicious giant soft bed for three whole days and only moved once - to walk slowly to Oldest's door as if to tell him something.
She and I had a tacit understanding. I do not care for dogs and she did not care for me. This made neither of us very popular.
She ran to greet K every night when he got home. He would scratch her behind her ears and say "hello, Dazey." Then she'd trot off and wait for someone to drop some food in the kitchen. But she was Oldest's dog and slept in his bed from the time she was a tiny puppy until he was too tall to share the space with her. She would follow his scent across the lawn when he went out. She was curled up with a tee shirt of his this morning.
They had a brutally teary goodbye - Oldest and Dazey.
He was the best boy any dog could want and she, well, she was the very best dog a boy could have.