Kristyn and I were given Olivia in 1998 by her brother who’s chihuahuas had a litter of puppies. This is before we were married. We were on vacation in Southern California, and drove her back home with us. I remember stopping at rest stops along I-5 to let her out to walk around and pee. She was so tiny and helpless in the back seat.

We weren’t supposed to have pets in the house we were renting in Sacramento, but she was pretty well behaved and took to the puppy pads pretty quickly. Both Kristyn and I worked in Woodland in those days. When we would come home, Olivia would wait for us down the hall and run towards us at full speed as soon as we opened the door. When she got to the carpet in the living room, she would roll over onto her back and slide into us to get her belly rubbed.

We moved to Woodland just before we were married and had a pretty good life of walks and leisure before the kids came along. Dogs take a back seat when you have a baby, and I think the transition was probably a little rough on her. She wasn’t much of a kid dog, but as the kids got older, she was more friendly to them.

By this time she was my kindred spirit—always in my lap or following close behind. She was my dog. When I was sick, she was in bed with me. When I was at the kitchen table, she was scratching to get in my lap. As she got older and couldn’t jump onto the bed anymore, we developed a routine where she would stand next to the bed and wait for me to look down at her. When I did, she would rotate to face away from me so I could scoop her up and plop her on the bed. From there she would crawl between my legs and curl up for the night.

We must have slept this way for the past five years.

On July 4th, we went to some friend’s house in Elk Grove for dinner and fireworks. When we got home, Olivia was breathing heavy, short breaths like she had been doing off and on for the past few days. We sort of figured we were nearing the end.

She wagged her tail, approached the bed, and gave the obligatory turn to be scooped up. She plopped between my legs and eventually got comfortable and breathed a little more easily.

We woke up to heavy breathing just after 1 a.m.. She wasn’t looking very well and we could tell she was on her way out. We snuggled her, kissed her, and pet her as she struggled to take her last breaths. It was as peaceful as dying can be, I suppose. I hope she didn’t suffer too much. I know I would prefer to take my last breaths in my home, surrounded by the people I love most. It’s very difficult to think about that night.

We laid there a while with her before rapping her up in her blanket and laying her in her dog bed for the rest of the night. The next morning, I woke up early and dug a small, 1 x 2 x 3 grave in her favorite sunny spot in the back yard. We broke the news to the kids when they woke up, and buried her together.

She was 15, and never sick a day in her life. She gave us the most and best years any dog could have, and even still, I desperately want 50 more. We lost dogs growing up, and I knew it would hurt to loose her, but she was my dog and my friend for a very long time. I didn’t realize how much loosing a stupid dog could crush you.

The kids have handled it pretty well. Poppy (four) is sort of a tactless robot when it comes to difficult times.

“I want to see dead Ouhus.” (we called her the Ouhus). “Dead Ouhus is just a body now. Why did we put Ouhus’ dead body in that hole?”

I find her sentiments surprisingly comforting. As I left for work this morning, Poppy said to me, “There’s no poop on the lawn anymore, daddy.”