Our big dog died this morning. He was about 11.

We got Sport in early 1998. I thought it was 1997, but that's the year we bought the house, and I'm pretty sure we got him after we bought the house. He was an about-8-month old puppy rescued from the pound; we estimated his birthday in April. The card that came with him said the previous owners gave him up 'cause they just didn't realize how big he'd be. His feet were almost as big as mine, but we were comfortable with that. We were looking for a substantial dog, and the big feet didn't scare us. We had the vet check him out and he estimated that the dog wouldn't get too much taller or longer, just fill out some. He was wrong, too, as he went through doggy puberty and added a good hand to his height and length and girth, and became the 90-100lb lug we loved.

He was a big, but kind and gentle dog. He didn't bark much until we got the little dog (year-younger Border Collie), and then largely he'd bark when she barked. At first we thought we'd gotten a silent dog. He was so good. Then she corrupted him, but we survived. He developed a big, booming bark, unless my buddy came over, who was Sport's favorite person in the world; then the barking would get maniacal in its pleading for attention.

Early on he had a couple of seizures, so he ended up on Phenobarbital to suppress his epilepsy. He was also allergic to grass and didn't like getting wet. A tough state for a Black Lab. Twice a day he got a load of pills to suppress his allergies and keep him from seizing.

Pretty well-disciplined, he stopped running away shortly after he started getting out open gates. He stopped to the point that if he was let out and the gate to the back yard was open, he'd stand there looking at the wrongness of the gate instead of jetting down the avenue. Of course, all bets were off if you were going through the gate, abandoning him in the back yard, but then he'd just run around to the front of the house and get on the porch so he could watch you. If he was on the porch and saw something that drew his interest, he'd generally stay put. In the few cases where he couldn't contain himself, he would return when called, perhaps after a few sniffs, but without having to chase him down.

He had been a little slow and mopey for the last week. Early in the week he took a spill out the back door, and was acting kind of like he'd been before when he hurt his leg or tweaked his hip on the back steps. He was in good spirits, but moving with more and more difficulty until Friday when he got really worked up just standing and mounting the stairs. The wife gave him the last pain-relief pill we had, and we made an appointment for the vet.

We took him to the vet on Saturday morning where the doc poked at his legs and spine a little, took some blood and x-rayed his side and stomach, but couldn't find anything obviously wrong. He was really uncomfortable when doc played with his back leg, so we thought maybe extreme pain was the cause. We were sent home with some pain pills and easy-to-stomach food, because he'd also lost his appetite, and were asked to wait while the blood-work was done. We got a voice-mail later that didn't have any urgency in it, or any detail, after they'd done some preliminary work; they have to send out for the tough stuff. We figured if there wasn't any urgency we'd just continue by trying to keep him comfortable while his body worked through the discomfort.

He did fine Saturday, he was just slow and sluggy. The pain pills gave him a stoned appearance, and while he didn't seem to be suffering as much, we could tell he was still sore 'cause he still moved like he was still sore, he just didn't pant and look the same. I had the same when my back went out; one shot of Demerol, and my back "didn't hurt," but I still couldn't stand up straight.

Sunday he was really lazy, moving as little as possible. He slobbered a lot, and had a hard time walking, both of which we attributed to the drugs. By mid-day he took up station under the kitchen table and wouldn't move unless forced. He'd go outside and pee, but didn't have any interest in food. For a while he'd get up and drink, which is something we were told to make sure he still did, but looking back I don't recall him drinking anything after dinner time.

The wife went to bed last night 'round 10:00, but he didn't want to get up to go outside like is the routine. He was having a hard time standing up, much less climbing the stairs, so I stayed up late (well, that and I was playing my PSP and watching a docu-drama of an 8-mile asteroid colliding with Earth...). I checked-in on him in the 12:00 hour; he'd been laying in the kitchen pretty much all day, and was still mopey there under the table, and while he didn't lift his head or wag his tail more than a couple twitches, he looked up at me when I scratched his ears a little.

When I finally decided to turn in a little after 3:00AM I found that he was gone. At first I thought he was just sleeping, but it immediately struck me that he was impossible to sneak up on. He'd always at least open his eyes. It occurred to me that maybe the drugs put him in a deeper slumber, but a quick hand on his side and I could tell he wasn't breathing, and I noticed the bit of froth on his mouth, and I couldn't feel his heartbeat. He was still warm, so it'd happened pretty recently. I pet his head and side a little, gathered myself and went to wake the wife.

Of course, she bolted out of bed and raced downstairs, and sadly confirmed I was right. In retrospect it was the thing we both feared when I had to lift him in and out of the Jeep going to the vet Saturday. We fretted a little and moved him around just so he'd look a little more comfortable.

I've never dealt with a big animal dying in the house before. Sure, fish, hamsters, rats, and other little animals. The next largest animal I'd dealt with was a pet rabbit when I was in Junior High School; he'd frozen or starved or both in a short span of "its too cold to go to the garage and deal with him" that I had. We'd had a dog when I was a kid, but she reached a point of sickness that mom took her in and put her down. She was just not there when we got home from school.

I called the 24-hour vet hospital to ask what needed to be done. It's a dog, I know, but I wasn't sure if there were any health reporting or disposal time lines required by the city or state or something. If a person had died, of course, we would have had a different response, but the helpful person on the other end expressed her sympathy and said nothing of the sort needed to happen and suggested that if we wanted to act immediately that they were open and we could just come in, or we could wait and talk to our vet in the morning. She suggested that we try to keep him cool, although for the few hours before morning there wouldn't be much change. I hung up and realized I didn't really understand what kind of change she meant. We expected rigor to set in, but we also expected him to expel any waste he was holding, and he hadn't. Of course, he didn't eat or drink much that last day.

The wife, up and certain she wasn't going to be able to turn back in, went to her office four hours early to do some critical things, and then planned to return before the vet opened so we could bring Sport in as early as possible. Since I'd not yet gone to bed, I tucked in for a couple tense hours of sleep.

We took him to the vet today 'cause we live in the city, and he was too big to stick in the flowerbed... The doc told us about his planned call and that his liver enzymes were elevated to a concerning level, but not an imminent level. Most likely the Phenobarbital had taken its toll. He thought he'd have enough time to have the tough talk about what kind of care we wanted to put Sport through, or whether we'd just want to make Sport comfortable to the end, or when we'd want to put Sport down.

Doc told us a bunch of times that he was surprised that Sport went so fast, and that if there'd been an indication of that kind of imminent peril that he would have tried harder to get in touch with us instead of leaving a "call you again later" kind of calm message. We didn't actually say the words "we don't blame you," but we don't blame him.

While we're not certain of the exact cause, it seems that based on the rapid decline, there was little we could have done, other than try to make him comfortable or decide to put him down.

The little dog seems a little out of sorts. We imagine she's confused about the whereabouts of the big dog. She didn't seem to be concerned with his carcass this morning; I inferred that she could tell that Sport's energy was gone, and that his empty shell drew none of her interest. She may not be experiencing the fact that he's actually gone. She saw us carry him out this morning, and we returned without him, which hasn't happened before. We're keeping our eye on her so we can try to see if she gets too mopey 'cause her companion is missing.

He was a great dog, and we miss him already.