In four hours, I will be saying goodbye to Bandit, my loyal canine buddy of the last nine and a half years. He wasn't a young dog when I adopted him, and now old age has caught up with my boy. I knew this day was coming, watched as it slip towards me at glacial speed for about the last year, telling myself I would do the right thing when his bad days started to outnumber the good ones. I kept that promise and made the dreaded phone call yesterday. I know it's the right thing to do, but it sure felt like I was plotting his execution.

We gave the condemned a last meal of raw hamburger, a can of dog food (he'd always been content with kibble and the occasional can of food that the cat would turn her nose up at), and a bowl of vanilla ice cream. As I set my purchases down on the counter at the grocery store I work at in the winter, the cashier (and my good friend) looked at what I had, looked at me and said "Please tell me this isn't what I think it is." She understood when I told her it was time, and offered to drive me today. I'd already called my mom, who will be going with me, but I appreciated the offer. My next-door neighbor made the same offer when I got home. I am surrounded by good people.

Bandit quite enjoyed all his goodies, by the way.