The tale starts with her at my side the minute I arrived home from the hospital on November 28, 2001. She was bright-eyed, curious and warm in the presence of this new, little human who had no idea what an amazing creature this dog was. Tasha. That was her noble name. She went through 4 long and loud years of toddler before 3 non-stop days in a car for 2,287.5 miles with a child who hated sitting still. Tasha was patient in this way. She nudged me to calm me, or licked me to make me laugh. Never failing to make us smile.

We had our times, like all kids, I longed for her to always want to play with me. To chase me around the house and play tug. But alas, she was getting old. She had aged a good 7 years when I was 5. I remember, I would cry and cry, and ask why she didn't like me anymore, but of course this would last for only a short while. All that to lay on her, and snuggle until I woke up the next day. A good rest meant a big day of running and jumping, even through her age. Tasha could even do a backflip if she really wanted to; My grandpa was the one to brag about her tricks. Ironically one day, she was going to jump off from her perch outside on a cold winter day. She screamed. And not that high pitched, annoying whine. This wonderful German Shepard yelled in agony, proceeding to limp inside then plop down for the next few days. The vet was not thrilled; she had bruised three disks in her spine. Spectacular. That was her first set of steroids. She was probably around 10 when this first sign of horror occurred. From there, we started noticing all of the things going wrong…

No more running for Tasha. No more flips or tricks. Only a slight trot is what she could manage to fetch her bright blue frisbee. A year or two after her first incident, she had a stroke. Hospitalized for three days, receiving her second and third set of steroids. She hated the truck after that. I can only imagine the fear running through her head as she was locked in a silver cell with tons of other yeling animals. And?thinking that she never, ever wanted to see that place again?hated going anywhere in a vehicle. That marked the end of her jogging days. She was a slave to her body, wearing out after the years of fun and youth. By the time she was 12, she couldn't do much but sleep, eat, and go to the bathroom on her sad part of the yard. She went from nearly 180 pounds to under 100 in only a year. Not much pitter patter was left on the cold oak-wood floor in our kitchen.

Then came around a dark time in September 2012. The blasted day that I will continue to demise. As always, I said my goodbye and lightly storoked her fragile gray head before leaving to school. My grandpa reminded me that he might be late coming home that evening while I quickly ran to catch my bus. Throughout the day, I was so anxious to get home and sit with my grandpa and Tasha, watching t.v and laughing. I would soon reevaluate my wish to come home. The bus finally pulled up to my driveway. Walking up to my house, I noticed something peculiar. She wasn’t in the window. She was always there, waiting excitedly for our return. I ran to my grandpa who had just pulled in the garage and he asked the usual, “How was your day?” and “What did you have for lunch?” I laughed and barreled into our house, entering the door to the little mud room and then opened the door that led to the kitchen. Joyfully I called, “Tasha we’re-” I stopped, just for a fraction of a second. I panicked. My brain was set on overload. My feet squeaked on the icy oak-wood floor as I skidded over to her. She looked like a log with fur lying there. Her head low to the ground, fighting for the air she couldn't get. Stomach bloated, she stayed, motionless besides the sharp inhales every fourth of a second. The dark lights enhanced what looked to be a halo around her horrified and pinned back ears. What happened? She was dying. I knew that, but I didn’t want to. She was my guardian angel, that meant she couldn’t leave me. She wasn’t allowed to.

I screamed at my grandpa. He came to a halt. Squeak. My grandpa then went into hyper-drive, autopilot. I held her head, and kept whispering to her, willing her to get better, that everything would be okay. “Okay.” I hate the word. It's so vague and meaningless, almost never true. I should have known that when a blurry, tall figure came to me with two mint towels and Tasha’s well used leash. We rushed her to the truck, looking through a fog of tears. Terror was coursing through her, she tried to strain, but could do nothing, only slightly jerk her paw. She was a baby again. Tired and dependent on everyone around her. The ride to the vet was a fast blur. Had we gotten into a crash, my spine would have been in millions of pieces from being turned around the whole ride. Holding her. Crying. I’m not sure who called the vet, but as soon as they saw our white and gray ‘73 Ford truck enter the small parking space, a silver table was out the front door. Two sweet girls came to the door, preparing to lift a 80 pound dog. I forced myself to put on a strong face as they took her from me. We followed them as they went into the surgery room. As soon as we stopped in the fluorescent lights, I was sucked back to her. Petting her, trying my best to make her somewhat comforted.

The girls moved around me as they probed her. Checking for any sign of what possibly happened; they never did have a definite answer on that. My knees felt like they were breaking when I heard the white door creak open from behind me. It’s going to be okay. Our vet, we’ve known him for as long as we have lived in Michigan. His eyes filled with doubt as he made his bout to the table. I could tell he didn’t dare look me in the eyes, but he glanced to my grandpa as though pleading for permission to leave. Putting one hand on her stomach, he shifted his weight and took a deep breath. “You have two options; we keep her here for a while, or put her down.” My heart nearly stopped. I knew she was too old to stay there, but in my mind, too young to go. My grandpa asked me what I thought. I just shook my head and gently rested my head on her graying shoulder.

The vet looked again to my grandpa to verify the answer. I heard the menacing clicking of big shoes on the bright floor, and saw a clear needle in his hand. I stepped back. Retreating to my grandpa, I stared, numb and ready to leave. Wanting to rewind time and change everything. The girls held onto her paw as the blank man flicked the metal tube and injected my longest companion in her front leg; straight into the bloodstream. Her big brown eyes, the fall forest that they let, flickered, then closed. For the very last time. I buckled. I wanted to run to her, hug her, have her back. But it was over. The room was suddenly all one color and blended, then black. I was carried out on my grandfather’s shoulders. He just held me close and told me that everything would be okay. But it wasn’t. It never was going to be. The more it was said, the less and less true it already was.

For the rest of my life, I will come home, and look to the window, waiting to see her again. For five years now, she has been sitting in a decorated tin, her ashes waiting to be released. Soon. So very soon will we bring her to where she began.