I had what some people would deem to be an inappropriate relationship with my dog. Right or wrong, I treated her like a human, my equal, and as such, I had high expectations of her. But she never held down a job, or drove, or made dinner; and occasionally she made very foolish decisions, like the time she decided to jump off the roof to chase another dog, which resulted in a broken leg, or the few times she thought it would be a good idea to roll around atop small dead animals we'd encounter on our walks. But I've known some humans to be lazier, and who make far more detrimental decisions, far more consistently, so, aside from a few bad choices, and the limitations of her species, Lacey more than lived up to my high expectations.

I got Lacey in 1992, the year I graduated college. She loved to chew on film canisters, and chase squirrels and rabbits, and dig after moles, and occasionally, leap with abandon into the water, and, later on, eat cat food (the sneak!). Every night, she liked a little taste of toothpaste before bed. She was a bit of a mooch, but had passable manners, unless there was a pizza nearby, in which case, she'd whimper and quiver for just a bit of crust. She loved all sorts of crusty breads, in fact. While living on Division Street in Trenton, near the bakeries, I'd have to keep a close watch on her: the bakers would often throw the day-old loaves to the birds. Lacey would look for a congregation of birds on the ground, push them off, and gobble up all their bread.

She was a constant, comfortable, and sympathetic soul through some of the standard, and not-so-standard, heartaches of life. Through the torture of a couple particularly brutal jobs, relationship break-ups, moves, at least one natural disaster, a car accident, a divorce, and having my world turned upside-down after the loss of my precious daughter, Catherine, Lacey was by my side.

She was also my companion through a lot of the most memorable good times, and a huge part of my day-to-day existence. We shared peaceful strolls along the river, trips to my father's cabin in upstate New York, a photography expedition down the Blue Ridge Parkway, family reunions, and my first date with Glen: we walked Lacey for hours that night as we all got to know each other better. She loved to look out the window, sit in the yard, go for rides and walks, eat pizza, curl up next to us on the couch, and sleep at my feet in bed.

Lacey was not a submissive dog, but she often looked up at me, before heading off on a scent, or devouring a treat, not so much -- I think -- to ask permission, but just to check to make sure we were on the same page.

She was a GREAT dog, a kindred spirit. The cats started showing up in 2000, and Lacey was not fond about the changes in our home. But she adapted, and I think, even secretly enjoyed some feline company. This was evidence of not only her devotion to me, but her good nature, as well.

Lacey died peacefully at my side on Monday, October 22, 2007. She had gradually begun to slow down not long after her 14th birthday, in September 2006, but not in any kind of alarming way. She had episodes during the summer of 2007 when she couldn't keep her food down, and she didn't beg with the same gusto. But they were episodes, and she bounced back. She was still navigating our hardwood stairs successfully, and begging for some table scraps, and sneaking some cat food when she thought we weren't looking, until two days before she died. At that time, she curled up on a pillow, and stayed put, except for a few wobbly trips out back to pee. I placed her on the futon in my office on that Monday, so we could be near each other while I worked. I knew we didn't have much time left, but I didn't know how little. I sat down with her at 8 p.m. and rubbed her belly and her ears, and the soft, fluffy spot under her ears, and I think she was glad for that. We just sat there quietly, two good friends, and right at 9 p.m. she looked up at me one last time, and then she was gone.

I am distraught to have lost my daughter and my special dog within 9 months of one another, but the sensations of grief are different. Losing Katie was a violation, an assault to my sensibilities, my heart, my brain; it has challenged my world view, my outlook, left me in a position to have to rediscover myself, my esteem, and any kind of meaning in my life. Dogs are such special animals; they're so in tune with us: I know Lacey could sense my fragile state, and hung on for as long as she could, to help me find my way. Lacey was part of my life for 15 years; she was my oldest and dearest companion. We had a bit of routine, me and Lacey, so much of it subtle, automatic, and deeply personal. I still don't stretch out in the bed, for fear of kicking her off. I leave a spot at the end of the couch for her to curl into. I save a bite of sandwich for her, and then remember. The alarm clock in my brain still issues commands to take Lacey outside, to feed her, to walk her; my heart, so grateful to have found such a good friend, still compels me to turn and smile at her, or rub her head, to give her a fingertip of toothpaste before bed. After 15 years, it's hard to change those habits, to turn off the "Lacey Instructions" in my head. Harder still is to be faced with the silent void where she used to be. Yes, she was just a dog. And she was an old one, too. And logically, we know that the time with our pets will be all-too-short; I don't feel angry about her death, or violated. Her death was part of the natural order of things. But she was my friend, and I am left to figure out how to get used to life without her. It won't be easy.