I couldn't get the lady at the yogurt place out of my mind. So many times since I saw her several months ago, my thoughts would run by that chance encounter. I was in the yogurt place with my two daughters, Tara, age 12, and Ashley, age 7. When we walked into the store we noticed a woman standing outside the door crying. She was telling her large, black dog to stay. He was a friendly beast with a big wag and a gray muzzle. The girls and I ordered our yogurts and she came up behind us. As we were sitting down, we heard her order a small yogurt. She told the salesperson that it didn't matter what flavor. I remember the woman behind the counter looking at the teary-eyed lady and not moving. She wasn't used to customers saying it didn't matter what flavor. I don't think she was used to nice-looking ladies crying as they ordered any old flavor of yogurt. My girls and I watched this scene in silence. I felt concern for this woman. Not just because I'm a Marriage and Family Therapist and that's what I do for a living, but because it was obvious something was wrong. I told the girls to eat their yogurts and not to stare. The lady picked up her yogurt and left the store. We ate in silence.

In a short while, the same lady entered the store again and ordered another yogurt. She was still crying. Every instinct I had told me she was in great pain. I stood up and walked over to her at the counter. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding," I said. "Are you okay?" She looked at me and at the woman behind the counter and softly said, "My dog is outside. I'm taking him to the vet to be put to sleep...he's very old...it's time...he loves yogurt...it's his most favorite thing in the world. I guess I'm stalling. He ate the first one and I thought he'd like one more." She took the yogurt and slowly returned to her friend waiting patiently outside.

The salesperson looked at me. I looked at her. My girls and I looked at each other. All of us had tears in our eyes. No one said a word. We quietly finished our yogurts and went outside. She was still there. We petted the dog and I told her how sorry we were. The girls listened intently as we talked for a few minutes then said good- bye.

Last night, I lay in bed dreading what was to come. I kept thinking about the lady and the big black dog. My husband Richard made an appointment with our vet for us to take Bonnie, our 14-year-old English Springer Spaniel, to be put to sleep. I knew, even that day in the yogurt place, that our turn was drawing near. Bonnie's hips had been going downhill with arthritis for a couple of years now. She was getting very slow and tired. For the past month, we'd been agonizing about the decision. How do you decide when it's time? Are we playing God? What if it's too soon? How do you set a day, make an appointment? Does she know? Would she want this? Would I want this if it were me? Yes.

In the back of my mind, I prayed that we'd have a clear sign that it was time to end her suffering. Something convincing like the vet saying she had some incurable something or other and the only choice was to put her down. I also thought maybe she would simply die peacefully in her sleep, without any undue pain. I'd find myself watching her when she slept sometimes, looking to be sure she was still breathing.

The hardest part was there was never to be one clear sign. There was a series of small things. Her hips were pinched and stiff. She could still get around, but had trouble getting up even a small step into the house. She slept most of the time. Her hearing was pretty much gone. She'd been getting kind of grumpy if you woke her up or asked her to move. A couple of months ago, she started losing control of her bowels. She'd ask to go out and lose control before we could get the door open. Many times, she'd go outside only to come back in and make a mess inside. She was embarrassed by this. You could read it on her face. We told her it was okay and cleaned it up. When she broke out with a sore on her back, called a "hot spot" from the nerve damage and pain in her hips, we knew it was time.

I called my close friend, Laura. Her husband John is a vet, and Laura runs the clinic. The four of us have been friends since we all moved to Redding fifteen years ago. We'd been talking about this whole issue for almost a year. John and Laura's two Labradors, Ace and Elsa, were Bonnie's buddies from puppyhood. They played in the lake together, went backpacking with us, and were our first babies. Ace died a couple of years ago from cancer, and just as John and Laura were getting ready to put old Elsa down, she died of a stroke. That was just a couple of months ago.

Laura and I talked about Bonnie being the last of the three. The end of an era. Laura and John helped Rich and me decide that it was time. Bonnie was beginning to suffer now. Laura told us, "It's that last great gift that you can give to her." I clung to this thought. She was right. Keeping Bonnie alive when she was hurting would be for us, not her. We could give her this one last great gift. Peace.

We talked to Tara and Ashley about our decision. They cried, but they weren't surprised. The lady in the yogurt place had given us a gift. Her openness and sharing had opened the doors for us to discuss the whole process with the girls months ago. Several times since our encounter with her, we would discuss the whys and hows of putting a beloved pet out of misery. We admired her courage and caring. I've silently thanked her many times for helping us get ready.

We came home from work early. Tara, Ashley, Grandma, Grandpa, Rich, and I sat with Bonnie and talked to her. I fed her forbidden table scraps from the refrigerator. Tara had a really hard time letting Bonnie leave. Ashley was quiet. Grandpa left the room. He said, "I said my good-byes earlier today." He was upset. My parents had been through this scene four times before. They knew how hard it was.

I think the hardest part was putting her in the car. She was anxious to go with us and kept trying to jump into the car. Her hind end would give out. I tried to keep her calm until Rich could pick her up and lift her gently into the back seat. We rode to the vet with the back windows down so she could hang her head out. The car was hot. We didn't care.

When we reached the vet, Bonnie knew exactly where we were. She hated going to the vet. We would have liked to take her to John and Laura, but their clinic was in Yuba City, two hours away from Redding. They wisely told us it would be the longest ride there and back that we would ever endure. We` took her to the vet who'd treated her since John and Laura moved to Yuba City several years back. Bonnie started shaking. We walked her around out front. We were stalling. I understood the second yogurt idea. Rich picked her up and carried her inside. Dr. Gurmmitt was waiting and gently ushered us inside to the exam room.

It only took a few minutes. He put the shot into a vein in her front leg and she died quietly and quickly in our arms. She looked so peaceful. So relaxed. I understood why they called it "being put to sleep." Dr. Grummitt left the room, and Rich and I held her and cried. When it felt like she was truly no longer there, just a shell of her body, we left.

As we rode home, I thought about the lady in the yogurt place again. I know now that it takes far more than courage to give this last great gift. It takes a lot of love.