I can't believe I have completely overlooked this thread for so long. My deepest condolences to all of you. I understand how hard it is to lose such a beloved family member.
I've been lucky enough to have not lost any non-human family members within the past few years, but I did lose my best friend in 1992. He was a wonderful border collie named Pete, and he became a member of our family in 1980 when I was 6. He was an incredible dog, and I will miss him forever.
Shortly after he passed away (he was put do sleep peacefully because of a fast acting cancer), Ann Landers ran this short "essay" in her column. It specifically references a dog, but I'm sure the sentiment can easily be extended towards any animal which had blessed our lives for any period of time.
DOGS DON’T HAVE SOULS, DO THEY?        I remember bringing you home. You were so small and cuddly with your tiny paws and soft fur.
        You bounced around the room with eyes flashing and ears flopping. Once in a while you’d let out a little yelp to let me know this was your territory.
        Making a mess of the house and chewing on everything in sight became a passion, and when I scolded you, you just put your head down and looked up at me with those innocent eyes as if to say: “I’m sorry, but I’ll do it again as soon as you’re not watching.”
        As you got older, you protected me by looking out the window and barking at everyone who walked by.
        When I had a tough day at work, you would be waiting for me with your tail wagging just to say, “Welcome home. I missed you.” You never had a bad day and I could always count on you to be there for me.
        When I sat down to read the paper and watch TV, you would hop on my lap looking for attention. You never asked for anything more than to have me pat your head so you could go to sleep with your head over my leg.
        As you got older, you moved around more slowly. Then one day, old age finally took its toll, and you couldn’t stand on those wobbly legs anymore. I knelt down and patted you lying there, trying to make you young again. You just looked up at me as if to say you were old and tired and that after all these years of not asking for anything, you had to ask me to do one last favor.
        With tears in my eyes, I drove you one last time to the vet. One last time you were lying next to me.
        For some strange reason you were able to stand up in the animal hospital – perhaps it was your sense of pride.
        As the vet led you away, you stopped for an instant, turned your head and looked at me as if to say, “Thank you for taking care of me.”
        I thought, “No – thank YOU for taking care of ME.”
By Charles B. Wells Jr.
Palmyra, NY
(From an Ann Landers column, printed in the Milwaukee Journal, 1992)
Catie
When I'm 130 years old, I want a pill that makes me so happy and so unself-conscious and so randy I'm willing to make love to my fuzzy bed slippers on my front lawn and yodel at the same time. -- Scott Adams from Dilbert and the way of the Weasel