From start to finish, that dog made me a better man

My wife called me at the office Wednesday afternoon to say we had to euthanize our dog of 14 years. Cancer in the liver and spleen. Did I want to come to the pet hospital just off Wisconsin Avenue NW to be present for the injections?

At first I said no. I was too busy. I'd just sent over my column for Thursday, and my editor hadn't had a chance to look at it. The dog was just an animal, after all.

Then my Jiminy Cricket voice spoke up. You know, "Let your conscience be your guide."

The voice said: I know I'd rather skip this, but I really ought to say goodbye in person. I should stroke her pumpkin-colored fur (now mixed with white) one last time.

Also, though I'm not proud to admit it, I was motivated partly by a twinge of egotistical self-protection. I didn't want to have to tell anybody in the future that I made my wife witness the sad event on her own.

So I went. It was the right choice, and for some reasons, I hadn't anticipated. Our pet's death reminded me of something she'd taught me about how families bond. Her demise also offered a lesson about the value of acquiescing to strong emotions, even painful ones.

If it's not already clear to my regular readers, let me say explicitly that my topic today differs from what you usually see in this space. I could have written about some regional policy issue or social trend, as I normally do.

But the feelings I experienced and tears I shed at the veterinary clinic were powerful. They led me to break with habit and write a more personal, introspective piece.

I didn't want the dog in the first place. I thought she'd be too much work.

That's a typical response for me. Practical. Utilitarian. What's the cost-benefit ratio?

My wife and son, then in second grade, persisted. They outvoted me.

My wife chose her at the shelter. Judging on appearance, we guessed she was a mix of golden retriever, terrier and other, unknown, breeds. My son named her "Brooks," in honor of his school, Westbrook Elementary in Bethesda.