We already had a dog, and had no desire for another, when Higgins suddenly came into our lives.

He was an Adopt-A-Pet dog, the result of one last visit to the shelter where our daughter had volunteered all summer.

“Can’t we just go say goodbye to him?” she asked, in the way a teenage girl asks her father.

Her soft-hearted, addle-brained dad gave in. Just to say goodbye. That day, we came home with a bowlegged, playful, good-natured and loving eight-month old mix.

Today, we said goodbye to him for good, his spleen enlarged to the brink of rupture and newly-discovered disc disease wracking his back. He had been in pain for longer than we knew, but almost unresponsive to his favorite things for the last four days. We had him x-rayed, and the bad news was there in black and white. There were options, of course, but only to prolong the inevitable.

So this morning, we took him on a last trip to the vet. Like the good dog he was, he climbed up on the scale to be weighed. But there was no need for that today.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

He was a goofy mutt who ran like Scooby Doo, his back legs always trying to outrun his front ones. If dogs can smile, he always had one. He didn’t drink or smoke, and his only vice was that he loved to bark when anyone came through the door, or — if he could see them from the window — down the sidewalk.

Higgins leaves behind five people whose hearts he won the moment they laid eyes on him. He leaves behind some good memories, too. The early times, when going for a walk was not an exhausting endeavor, but a treat to be savored. The old days, when he would chase — and bring back a ball — without getting winded. The days before arthritis in his hips — and later his spine — made it impossible to get in or out of the car on his own.

Now, there’s a hole in the house where Higgins used to be. I know we did the right thing today. But  it’s hard as hell to say goodbye.

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