You know how much I love dogs. We own two now, but it's not the first time we've welcomed two pooches into our family. Before Brad, there was Spock, a white toy poodle, and after him, there was Muffin, a black mini poodle. We loved the breed, and both dogs were sweet, easygoing, a cinch to housebreak and cooperative, adoring pets.

Until we moved from our dinky apartment into our first house. Spock turned from docile and contented to mean and nasty. He started biting us, drawing blood, often when we were petting him. We took him to a vet named, believe it or not, Dr. Barkan, at Basic Pet Care. His advice? "Lead in the head," he suggested. He was actually telling us to euthanize our dog because he'd gone crazy! We were stunned, but he wasn't kidding. Spock had changed, and not for the better. When we had Brad, it became apparent that either the new baby or Spock had to go. Brad liked pulling the dog's tail and ears. Spock rewarded this behavior with vicious snarling and biting. My brother offered to take Spock to live with him upstate, in his Albany home. Hoping to eventually bring Spock back into our household, we gratefully accepted Steve's offer. Sadly, only a few months after going to live with my brother, Spock was hit by a car and killed. My brother, who had grown very attached to him, was crying when he called to tell us the bad news.

That left us with Muffin, who quickly proved herself a motherdog supreme. Spayed though she was, she adopted baby Brad as though she'd given birth to him. Whenever he cried, she anxiously circled him, running back and forth between him and us, alerting us to his cries. When strangers approached his carriage outside, she whimpered and gazed at them, growling as if to say, "Are you safe? Do you have parental clearance? Are you permitted to gaze upon the royal child?"

Amazing in her determination and adoration, Muffin stayed at Brad's side, whether he was in his stroller, carriage, crib, or my arms being breastfed. His safety and good health were paramount. When he began getting constant ear infections, it was Muffin who barked to let me know each and every time the fever caused him to throw up.

I wish I could say that Brad returned her loyal love, but the truth was, he didn't seem to appreciate her constant, militant presence, and sometimes seemed annoyed by it.

As he grew up, I chided him, "Brad, this dog adores you--why don't you pay attention to her once in a while?"

Engrossed in school, sports and video games, he never had a good answer. Muffin was always there, always at his side (or, as he liked to call it, "Always in my way.")

When Brad was 13, Muffin turned 15 and was in amazingly good health. I was walking her every day. She had never been good on a leash, always tugging and pulling, but in her later years, she learned to heel beautifully and walked beside me, a regal queen. I so enjoyed our walks, and talked to her as if she were a person, sharing my disappointment that Brad never appreciated her attentiveness more. I imagined her saying, "Oh, mother, don't fret, that's children for you. He loves me, we both know he does. He's just so busy, too busy to say so."

On a Saturday morning in October, 1995, I woke up and realized something was terribly wrong with Muffin. She was leaning to one side; her eyes were cloudy and unfocused. She urinated on the floor, something she hadn't done since she was a puppy. Horrified, I called the vet, who said Muffin had most likely had a stroke. He advised us to wait out the weekend and see if she improved.

Dan and I barely left her side Saturday or Sunday. Unfortunately, she was no better on Monday, vomiting and dizzy. I called when I got home from work. "Bring her in," the vet said.

We asked Brad to come along. "We might not be bringing her home," I said hesitantly.

"Yes you will," he scoffed.

"Brad, she's 15," Dan reminded him. "That's 90 year old for a dog. If we don't bring her home and you don't come with us now, you might not have a chance to say goodbye."

He insisted he had homework to do, and I got the impression he was sure we'd be bringing Muffin home. After all, she'd been there when we brought him home from the hospital and he'd never known a day in his life without her. His world had always had Muffin in it, and always would, no matter what we said.

The vet examined Muffin carefully. He gently said, "While she isn't in pain, she's dizzy and nauseous, and that isn't going away. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I think you should put her to sleep."

I started to cry. Dan sort of made a gasp-choke noise. Hearing him actually say the words we were dreading was so hard. I thought he'd be able to give her a shot, a pill, something to reverse the stroke--to reverse aging!

I'll never forget the wallpaper in that little examining room, a repeating pattern: brown background with cavorting white puppies with red bows around their necks. Our vet's policy didn't allow pet owners to stay and hold the animal while the dog was injected; we had to say goodbye now and Muffin would be put to sleep later, after closing. We were too stunned to argue or say much of anything. I held Muffin in my arms and whispered in her ear, "You were the best dog in the world, girl, you're going straight to heaven."

Dan never cries, but he was sobbing when he gathered Muffin into his arms, hugged her tightly and muttered, "I love you so damn much and this just sucks!"

It really, really did.

Leaving her behind, still alive, was just awful. Muffin looked so forlorn, not understanding why we were going away without her. The bill indicated a huge fee for having her cremated and buried with hundreds of other dogs, but our town has a strict ordinance against burying pets on your property.

To this day, I wish we had taken Muffin elsewhere, but you can't think rationally under those circumstances. Or at least, we'd have had them put her to sleep, gone back and collected her body to bury in our backyard.

The worst was yet to come, however.

We returned home with an empty collar and leash, both of us crying. Brad blinked in disbelief. "Where's Muffin?"

"She had to be put to sleep," I said. "We TOLD you, Brad! We asked you to come along!"

He started to cry. Hard. "I didn't think. . .I was hoping. . ."

We were all hoping, of course. For a miracle. For the inevitable to be pushed back, just for a little while. But all life is finite, and the pets with whom we share our lives brighten them for so brief a time, and then are gone.

I've never been back to that vet, and I dream about that fucking wallpaper sometimes.

Love, Robin