**This post was originally a post on my blog site, but then I re-wrote it to really focus on grief and the loss of a pet. It was submitted to Chicken Soup last month - still keeping my fingers crossed.

I’d like to do Saturday over. I’d like to not fret about a forty dollar remnant rug ruined by a frantic dog that lost control of her bowels in the middle of the night. I wish I hadn’t ranted for two-hours while mopping dried dog poop off hard-wood floors. Instead, I’d like to sit with her a little longer, kiss her face and say again and again how much I love her; remind her that she is such a sweet girl.

Our 13 ½ year-old Golden Retriever, Chelsea, was lethargic and refused to eat or drink after a bout of diarrhea. She curled up in the mudroom, taking deep, rhythmic breaths. There was no whimpering or noises indicating pain, but when my husband, DW, tried to get her to stand, her back legs trembled and she sank to the ground.

“Maybe Chelsea ate something that made her tummy hurt,” said eight-year-old Molly, stroking her back.

“She’ll be better tomorrow,” added twelve-year-old Hayley.

Sunday came and Chelsea still didn’t move. The girls were visibly nervous, sweetly begging her to eat something, anything. In the afternoon DW carried her outside to enjoy fresh air and watch the kids play. She never moved on her own, but lay very still, absorbing the sunshine.

“It has to be her back flaring up again,” DW insisted Sunday evening. As an aging dog, Chelsea had frequent back problems treated with medication.

DW and the girls were tucked in tightly for the night while I prepared food and cleaned up the kitchen. I called it a day at midnight, locked doors, turned out lights and gave one more kiss. Her white-haired muzzle stood out starkly against a dark brown throw rug.

“Goodnight, sweet Chelsea Girl,” I whispered.

Slowly Monday’s routine started. Descending the stairs, I expected to be greeted by Chelsea but instead found DW sitting in a chair. He nodded towards the mudroom, pointing out that Chelsea had not moved all night.

“Maybe we should call the vet,” he mumbled. “Soon.”

The sadness in his voice was uncomfortable. We have been married for almost nine years. I’ve only seen him cry at our wedding and when our daughter was born. My relationship with Chelsea is well defined and deep, but his started years earlier. His family lives states away, and she had been his only companion for four years.

The vet was able to see her quickly. Dr. Wilson felt around and confirmed tenderness on Chelsea’s spine.

“How long has her belly been this swollen?”

Swollen? She hadn’t been up for almost two days. We hadn’t noticed anything. Dr. Wilson ran full blood panels and took preliminary ultra sounds.

“We think there is a mass on her spleen,” she said slowly, “and her red-blood count is only 17%. We also found blood in her belly.”

She talked about surgery and non-surgery options. DW took my shaking hand, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks.

“Well, who do we see now then?” I urged.

Taking a deep breath, Dr. Wilson told us about a veterinary hospital thirty minutes away where they could do more extensive ultra-sounds and perhaps offer different options. If there wasn’t a mass, or if they thought it was her back, then they could provide steroid injections or surgery if that is what we chose. My rational-minded husband was silent. He seemed to be waiting for my emotionally driven response. He wanted a second opinion just as much as I did.

“Call the hospital,” I said, “Let them know we are coming.”

The hospital staff received us somberly with faxed charts. Barely thirty minutes passed when the doctor appeared with ultra-sound results. She was curt and frank.

“There is a very large tumor on her spleen that has ruptured. She has a lot of internal bleeding and…”

“Wait a minute,” I blurted out. “What about her back? It’s just her back that is the problem, right? What are you saying?”

The doctor’s demeanor softened. “It’s not her back,” she stated. “She is dying.”

The cancer was aggressive and couldn’t be treated. We were all out of options and the doctor’s recommendation was that we didn’t take her with us but let them put her to sleep right there.

“We can’t do that right now,” I exclaimed between sobs, “My children need to say goodbye to a member of their family.”

DW interjected, “And letting them see her die is better?”

My voice shifted from sadness to anger, “There is no “better”. I don’t want to see her die either, but at least we all get to say goodbye.”

The doctor explained that it can be traumatic for very young children to experience death so intimately. Perhaps I should reconsider.

“How old are they exactly?” she asked.

“Twelve and eight,” I replied.

“They’re older than I thought,” she sighed, “I see your dilemma.”

We chose to bring Chelsea back to our home vet and let the girls decide. It was four o’clock when we arrived. While DW finalized paperwork, I gave the girls their choices. They could say goodbye, then wait in the lobby until we were ready to go home, or they could be with us the whole time. Hayley wasn’t sure at first what to do until Molly said,

“I don’t want her to die at all, but I also don’t want her to die alone. She might be scared without us.”

Dr. Wilson clearly explained to the girls what was going to happen. Molly did her best to keep her composure, looking to Dad as an example. He was calm, serious, and non-emotional. Hayley and I cried openly. In a small private room, I sat on the floor with Chelsea, as the girls huddled with dad on a couch. Each placed a hand on her back. The first injection sedated her, bringing her to a near twilight sleep. I kissed her nose and whispered in her ear. In a few minutes, the second injection took her from us forever. I heard unfamiliar sobbing, and looked up to see DW’s face drowning. His deep blue eyes were overflowing with grief. Molly was also crying in deep waves.

I don’t know how long we sat there, but each of us petted and talked to her even though we knew she couldn’t hear us any longer. When we got home, DW rolled up her carpet and put-away her bowls. I wanted him to sit and be still. I wasn’t ready to put anything away yet. Hayley went to find pictures of Chelsea to put in her room and Molly decided to claim one of Chelsea’s stuffed animals as her own. I released it all in the shower, crying uninhibited. The rest of the evening was quiet. We ate in shifts and curled up to watch television. Both girls wanted daddy to lay down with them at bedtime.

I cleaned the kitchen, looked around for something that wasn’t there, locked doors, turned out lights and whispered one last time,

“Goodnight, sweet Chelsea Girl.”