Rarely can we claim to have found perfect companions; the perfect match notion is more fallacy than fact.

I consider myself blessed to have found a perfect companion in our first dog, Millie.

Millie had unparalleled intelligence and a sixth sense awareness to her family’s emotions and overall physical wellness. But this is not a tale of her endeavors, nor of the family that misses her dearly. This is a tale of her destruction.

This is the recounting of my witnessing death effortlessly steal away from my family, our dearest companion.

Until that moment in my life’s journey, I was never burdened with the sorrow of witnessing death escort another expired soul to their respected afterlife.

Cancer is absolutely the quietest of killers; it slashed Millie from the inside out. The only inclination of Millie’s pain was reflected in her eyes. Each harrowing day, all of her agony was mirrored through her amber eyes.

We were not expecting a disease of this caliber to attack our pet. She was only seven, we were positive she could have lived for another five or even six years.

Death pays no regard to age, though, striking her down in one fell swoop.

Her starvation during the ensuing weeks instilled in me emotions I was not even personally aware I possessed.

In a twisted sense, her short period of suffering could be viewed as a silver lining; she was not burdened for long. It was less than a month from her diagnosis to her time of passing.

Since the cancer was waging an all-out war against her digestive tract, she was forced into a state of starvation. Everything that she attempted to digest was violently regurgitated within minutes. Pitiless, the cancer rotted away her appetite.

While the course of the disease lasted only a trifling amount of weeks the anguish that we witnessed in Millie’s eyes was enough to drive me to tears on a daily basis.

We would try every method within our human power to force food into her dying stomach. This was death at its greatest; Millie rendered the greatest price for death’s magnum opus.

In that time space of less than a month we watched, utterly incapable of easing her pain.

Her final curtain call was imminent; we could sense its approach; much like one can feel a terrible storm looming on the horizon. Defeat was at hand, and death was about to make its final move.

Her final days were hell. She could barely stand, and the pain was replaced by exhaustion at every turn.

I could no longer stand to lay eyes on her gaunt form. Every bone in her emaciated body jutted a harsh line against her coat.

I could not help Millie. She silently suffered, never once compromising her wonderfully warm disposition and never once expressing her pain in anything other than her gaze.

I was begging for miracles, but true life is not cinema.

Death checkmated Millie the day she seceded to her pain and began to vocalize her torment. The discomfort she felt was expressed to us in whimpers; the sound could wrench knives deep into your heart.

These cries were not loud, nor were they drawn out. They were muffled, pitiful and dripping with misery. It was on this day that it was decided she should be euthanized.

Her pain had become unbearable and she had not ingested food in almost a month. The cancer took her down hard, and death was, as death always is, triumphant.

Although she held no championship titles, she held an air of dignified grace, and she housed a champion’s heart within her chest. The aurora of regality about her is one that I have never since witnesses in another animal.

My hand lay on her chest even after her valiant heart stopped.

I never cried so hard in my life.

That moment for me was surreal, for even in all her agony and discomfort Millie still reached a dry tongue towards our hands as if to comfort us, and assure us that this was for the best.

Her ashes rest upon our mantleplace. Propped up against the box is a picture from her youth, all that remains of an unconditionally selfless creature.

The bereavement process was formidable. The days felt longer, and the nights were colder without her nestled against my side.

Our yard was empty without her sunning herself, lounging on the lush grass. Slowly the products of her shedding began to fade.

Once in a while we’ll discover a hair clinging desperately to a pair of pants, unwilling to be forgotten with time. Silence falls over us and we catch ourselves in reveries of the days past.

Witnessing death is unlike any other trial or tribulation to be faced in this world. Recently, however, my family and I could not handle the house being so empty without the presence of a dog spiking our days with a dash of continuous chaos.

We made the decision to invest in another Boxer, and have now welcomed Roxy into out family. She has impeccable standards to live up to, and an incredible pair of shoes to fill.