Best "Passing of a dog" story I've ever read:
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We both know the end of our time together approaches, my dog and I, but still we linger.

I lay on the floor, my arm around his furry neck, scratching his chest as I watch the women's Olympic marathon. Watching the marathoners reminds me of all the miles Kliban and I have run together, on the roads and through the years. We have run together for possibly 10,000 miles as I trained for races, through all seasons, and have shared the time between my 23rd and 38th year.

I was there at his birth. And his presence has been the one constant thread, the singular unchanging color in the tapestry of 15 years.
Threads have ended in the tapestry, people have gone, and there are memories that just the two of us share.

"He's just a dog..." people who have never had a dog might say. But there is a wisdom, born in the shared years, that glows in those luminous, round brown eyes, now above a graying muzzle and clouded with the blue of old age.

When we hiked the Appalachian Trail together, we fell into a pattern that mirrored the way he lived in my life - his self-appointed guardianship. He always trotted ahead to wait for me, standing protectively where he could scan the trail ahead while still keeping me in sight.

As I slept, he protected, once even charging a wild boar that rooted around our tent in Tennessee.

Twice on the trail he disobeyed.

Once, in Virginia, he returned from his vantage point and blocked my path. As I kept trying to go around him I grew irritated - until I finally heard the ominous shake of the rattlesnake up ahead.

And in New York, where we had hiked a long two days without water during a drought, he suddenly disappeared for a stretch of minutes. I yelled at him when he finally reappeared and approached, until he rubbed his wet chest against my legs and then led me to the water.
The words "good dog" made him quiver with happiness, and that was all he ever wanted.

But now the arthritic hips have finally failed, the vision has dimmed, and the internal systems have worn out. Still, how I dread that last goodbye, that scene at the veterinarian's office when he will be "put to sleep."

And yet, as I hold him and feel his thin shoulders, I know it is time. So I tell him so and start to cry. Monday, I tell him, I'll call and make the appointment. You've been so tough and brave, protecting me all your life, it's okay, you can rest now.

"You're a good dog," I tell him, and he responds with a quiver. "It's me you've been waiting for, I finally understand. I love you, and I'll never forget you. I wish you could be with me my whole life, but I'm ready, it's okay."

I get up and go into the other room, turn on the computer and try to work for a while, crying and writing.

When I return 20 minutes later, Kliban has gone, with dignity and peace, protecting me this one last time.

He is wrapped in a quilt made of T-shirts from the running races he helped me train for, and buried in a shady spot with a view of the mountains. And he is somewhere yonder, on the long trail, where he has gone ahead to wait for me.