Shelby.

When I was 7 years old, we got our first dog, Shelby. She was a year old Keeshond, an energetic pup who jumped on us, begged for our food, and pooped in the living room. We couldn't love her more!

Google tells us the average Keeshond lives 12-14 years, but 15 years later, Shelby's still here.

In the last year, she's become very fragile. She now has terrible arthritis. When she once used to drag us around our neighborhood block, it now takes her over an hour to walk the half mile loop. Her fluffy tale, once wagging and curled tightly onto her back, now droops down towards the ground as she limps around the house. And when she used to run across the entire house the minute anyone accidentally dropped food on the floor, she now can hardly see nor smell food only a few feet in front of her face.

I came home late Thursday night to my mom crying on the floor of the garage, holding Shelby's wet panting body in her arms. While puppy Shelb used to scramble and fuss in the bath, this time she held still, her tired eyes whiting with cataracts. Her arms and legs collapsed in the tub, and she just laid there, helplessly.

I grew up with this pet being a part of our family. Our goldfish came and went, down the toilet and out of our memories, but Shelby was always there. Even as a animal, she put off a laid-back, silly, and free-spirited vibe, where people use to tell us that she somehow fit our family so well. Something about seeing her so fragile feels unnerving and violating.

You don't have to be a spiritual or religious person to know or believe that death is a natural part of the cycle of life. But often times, even when they tell us the timing is "right", we just aren't ready for it.