
This week I did the most difficult thing in my life: I brought my 13-year-old golden retriever, Megan, home from the intensive-care unit to die. I lay down next to her at her favorite napping spot in the house and my 14-year-old golden, Rocky, her life-long companion, lay on the other side. Despite being gravely ill, Megan knew she was home, knew who we were and even poked her favorite, plush squeak-toy with her nose.

