I hate goodbyes.

Jeffrey (at left, aged about 3) was my mother's constant companion for a little over 16 years. My dad, my little sister and I picked him out at the pound one day and surprised Mom with him on her anniversary. He started out a backyard dog, moved indoors and became a little brother.

In his 16 years with my family, he survived an earthquake. He survived other dogs moving on his territory. He survived a move to Texas (no small feat considering other family pets didn't last more than a year after the move). But on Tuesday, Mom had to make the decision that no one ever wants to make. Jeffrey was in real pain for the first time in almost 17 years and it was time to say goodbye.

I keep repeating his age because it's one of the things that's supposed to make you feel better. Like, "He had a good life," or "He's in a better place now," it rings a little hollow. They'll sound better in a month, even better in a year. And one day, I'll say those words without choking. For now, I'm reduced to the 13 year old boy who brought his puppy home from the pound.

I'd been expecting the call for what seems like forever now and still it shot me through the heart. How my mother managed alone (Dad's out of town on business), I don't know. She's not famous for her resolve in times like these. She loved him enough to keep it together until it was over. He was never alone, right up until the end. He deserved no less. He never left her side, until he had to.

You were a good boy even when you weren't. Goodnight Jeffrey. Say hi to Jamie and the others for me.

-J.