I love living in the country. Years ago, my favorite views were from the front yard, looking down at the barn and horses, or from the sawdust building on rainy days. I could scan the wooded ridge behind the house. But now it's like looking at fine artwork, lacking the bottom of the frame. It was as though no matter what direction I looked, I saw the view over the familiar curve of my beloved Rottweiler's head. And now my Amanda is no more.

Amanda was diagnosed with osteosarcoma - bone cancer. Her only hope lay in amputating her right front leg at the shoulder. From the beginning, the deck was stacked against her. Some patients beat the incredible odds, and the cancer doesn't spread after amputation. Others decline before the stitches come out. Gaining six months of life was considered lucky. Amanda's courage and incredible will made her a good candidate for surgery; she faced life's remaining challenges boldly, on three legs and a heart.

And she lived beyond six months, then seven months. As the eighth month approached, I silently started to think her slim hope was growing. She faced good and bad days with courage for the battle, and exuberance for life. But some races cannot be won. Sometimes all that remains is to fight the good fight. My Amanda fought the good fight.

And so it was, on a spring-like day in January, Amanda was not on her feet waiting to go do barn chores. I called her name, and she didn't rise. I went to her, and she sat up but cried as she did so. She walked about 10 feet, and lay back down, crying out again. I looked at her through hot tears, and bent to cup her face between my hands, as I have always done, and wiped the sleep from her eyes. She already had her pain medication with breakfast. I knew what dose I could push to, and gave her more. I sat with her, talked with her, and told her to stay. Then I went to the barn to quickly do chores.

Obviously I forgot who I was talking to. This was Amanda, my shadow, my constant companion and protector. I should've locked her in; I'll never know what the trip to the barn cost her that day. The distance wasn't great, but on that day, the challenge was. And so was the pain. When I turned and saw her hopping into the barn, I knelt to hug her. She sagged gently onto her side, and lay there, looking at me with expectant, searching eyes. Looking for reasons. I thought if I stayed within sight, she'd lay quietly. But each time I'd slip off to finish feeding the horses, she'd be at my side again, gazing up with loving eyes. Each time, I'd cup her face in my hands. And each time, she'd topple over onto her side.

The veterinarian arrived quickly. I knew in my heart that this day would not end well. But the tide had clearly turned. I should have read the signals earlier on. Her eyes had begun to search a farther horizon over the past few weeks, one I couldn't see. I had also noticed symptoms, things I explained away because I didn't want to admit the end was near. But she knew, and in her way had been especially tender with me. When we'd be sitting together, she'd just look up at me, and give me a kiss on the chin. Her naps lasted longer. Her walks were shorter. Her need for my undivided attention, greater. But now her pain exceeded what her medication could control, and was etched across her face. I couldn't allow such a noble fighter to linger and decline into greater pain and weakness. There would be no more mornings for me to wipe the sleep from her eyes. Amanda spent her life placing herself between me and danger; that day was no different.

She took up her post, kept her vigil. She willed herself not to give in to the sedative, would not go to sleep; after a second dose of sedative, she gave the veterinarian a final warning growl (to stay away from me) and tipped over against me. As the final euthanasia drug stopped her heart, mine broke. Her race was finished.

We wrapped her in a favorite blanket, and the veterinarian took her to be privately cremated at the humane society. As the van pulled away, I sat in the sawdust, her collar threaded through my fingers, blinded by tears. The next day, her new dog license came in the mail. Her tag is on my key chain.

Amanda's rules for life were simple - she loved a select few with depth and passion and was willing to die for them. Few will mourn her, but many respected her. Amanda was beautiful; I've yet to see a Rottweiler quite like her. She was strong, and courageous beyond all reason. And behind the menacing facade she showed the world, was her pervading gentleness. Only I saw it. Of all the animals on the place, right down to the house cat, Amanda was the one who didn't harm another living creature.

I so wanted Amanda to see another spring. But my dear friend Mary Horn, who was there at her passing, said it was too hard to leave in the spring; winter was somehow better for departures. Amanda taught me to live differently. Because of her, I learned to sit still. In comforting her after her surgery, I opened my eyes to the beauty around me. Because I paused with Amanda, I saw hummingbirds sit on tree branches. As I comforted her, she was healing me. We sat together under the eave during downpours. We felt the sun on our bones. We stretched out on the grass and I remembered what it was to search for pictures in the clouds.

I've yet to decide what to do with her ashes. Part of me wants them nearby. Another part recalls how she would lift her eyes to the ridge behind the house, as if she knew she'd never climb it again. Perhaps I can make that climb for her now, and set her free on the winds that always sweep down the face of the hill. The winds that always rush toward home. But there's a part of her that can't be contained in an urn or set free on the breeze, because it will always remain inside my heart, where she is happy, healthy, whole, and running.

In my fondest dreams, she's running back to me... In my fondest dreams, I wipe the sleep from her lovely brown eyes...

Writer's name withheld.

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