Brindy had lived a good life, a really swell batch of days spanning nearly 18 years. This day she suffered. My mom had told me (from her experience with our 17-year-old doggy from my childhood), “When it’s time, you’ll know.” She was right. I called the vet’s office. They kindly scheduled an appointment for 4:30, the last slot of the day.

As I return today to blogging, I conveniently look back not only on my dog’s life but another year of living, and I’m very thankful for it all.

This past year I lost bets with myself. Starting in ’07 (the year this picture of Brindy was taken), I’d said I would do certain things with writing and life. You know, goal type stuff. But I knew and was reminded anew that reality is as reality does. And in the losses and failures arrive gains sometimes most amazing. Gifts.

Last Monday, Mom went with me and Brindy to the vet’s office. The two of us talked while waiting in the exam room for the first shot to take affect, the anesthesia that lets the animal drift into sleep. I stroked Brindy’s fur and felt her trembles lessen, her muscles finally relax. She’d fought for so long. I called her little iron dog, because she’d survived things in younger years like slug-bait poisoning. And she’d been my running buddy. Always ready to accompany, to protect.

The vet returned to give Brindy her second injection, the one that would end her suffering. But my dog was already gone.

I didn’t cry. I’d done that. Likely I will again. I was grateful for her easy passing, and so was Mom. We hugged each other. We hugged the vet.

Eighteen years ago I wasn’t expecting to raise a small canine. For me, one would have to be Beagle size or larger; I was done with little dogs. But my grandma, Edna, had been given a teeny puppy, and she recognized the first day that she couldn’t keep her. As Grandma Edna’s caregiver, I agreed. At first sight my little children loved the doggy. And I admit I was smitten fast. We were too much for Tim, he gave in quickly to our pleas, our promises.

Tim, though not a dog person, was kind to Brindy. She became his companion at the woodpile. I caught glimpses of them playing, chasing one another back and forth over the grass in late spring. Tim would grin as Brindy raced, a dark streak on the lawn. She flipped her curled tail, her tongue lolled; she was gaining.

Last week, a bit under the weather, I decided on a change for the blog and web site. This new theme’s called SubtleFlux. The banner picture made me think of Tolkien – at first I guessed it might be a painting. But it’s from a photo, and you can see the whole thing here. The lovely body of water exists in Australia, so not too terribly far from New Zealand, where LOTR was filmed.

My favorite part of this new design for my little web house is its breadth. I can throw my text wide, toss in my own enigmatic or goofy pictures, and add movies or whatever else comes along next in this sphere that’s always morphing and growing faster than my hardware can keep up with. So, hmm, I’d like to try a few now. Do you mind terribly if a spider shows up a little later?

Cecily, from that land of lovely lakes down under, blogged this week about (large) spiders wandering into her home. Our biggest beauty hung around outdoors until just a few chilly days ago, trapping her flies and only startling me the day I did windows. I like spiders… when they keep to their own digs. But feel free to leave before scrolling down the page much further into eight-legged territory.

Before the latest storm took off final leaves, we enjoyed this rainbow view one afternoon. Our front maple’s friendly branches have now returned to greet me with their familiar geometry.

Then, inside the home, we watch our faltering doggy, Brindy, as she winds down, sleeping most of her days away. Our larger-than-Brindy cat, Westley, seems to sense a need for closeness to his buddy. I’ve never before seen him sleep next to the waste basket, but I consider him keeping a vigil of sorts.

And here is our promised spider lady.

Tomorrow, the American holiday for thanks will give us warmth and full tummies. We’ll think of friends, family, and critters we’ve loved, now gone. I’ll be grateful for my mom and for health and for treasures that don’t need to be stored digitally. They’re tucked away securely in my heart.