Some roads end too soon

We've recently been confronted with some heavy decisions lately. Ones our hearts and our heads cannot reconcile.

Our beautiful, furry friend and companion, Dizzy, isn't doing well. She's an old dog. Fifteen by human years. She's not the most graceful pup, nor is she the brightest bulb, but when it comes to love, she makes up for it in spades.

We adopted Dizzy in 1995. We were living in Texas and had been talking about getting a companion for our dog Toto. He died a couple of years ago. He was my first baby, and losing him was heartbreaking and unexpected.

Back then, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and I was having a tough time dealing with it. While I was back in Kansas helping her, my husband went to see a litter of pups. They were Pomeranians, just like Toto. Eric thought a dog might help. He was right.

When I got back into town, he surprised me by taking me to a house I'd never seen and telling me to pick out a puppy. The dogs were adorable, racing each other down the hall, hopping all over each other to be the first into the backyard. They were a playful lot and it was tough to choose one.

I was looking at a cream-colored little fur ball and sat down cross-legged to get a better look at her, when this sable-colored dog with big brown eyes pushed her way into my lap and claimed me for her own.

Dizzy has always known what she's wanted. She's always made it clear. Ball, food, treats and lots and lots of love and attention.

She's a crazy little dog who was out for trouble, damn the consequences.

When she was about 4 months old, she jumped off the bed at breakneck speed and promptly broke her right leg. She spent forever in the cast and lost a ton of playtime, for which she made up as soon as the cast was removed. That is not to say that the cast really ever slowed her down. She'd go thumping all over the house, dragging whatever stuffed toy was her favorite and threatening to tear it to shreds in frustration at her limited movement.

Her favorite things to do were play ball, snatch birds out of the air and chase down horny toads in our back yard, that's when she and Toto weren't up to no good and digging under the fence to roam the neighborhood. I can't even count the number of times they snuck out of the back yard only to show up scratching at the front door or lounging on the front steps, lying in wait for the mailman.

Dizzy was our Tasmanian Devil. Full of mischief to Toto's aloof attitude.

She's mellowed out a lot over the years, becoming a beloved companion for our 3-year-old. When Toto died, Morgan kind of stepped up as Dizzy's best friend. He follows her around and hugs her, pets her and tells her she's beautiful despite her gaseous nature and horrible breath.

She stays up with me late into the night when I read or watch TV, always there looking for some love and attention, curled up on her bed in front of the fireplace. When we go to sleep, she crawls beneath the bed and lays down for the night, always wanting to be in our presence.

She's also our alarm clock.

I'm not sure when she decided that 5 a.m. is the time to be fed, but pretty close to 5 every morning she'll wake us up and won't take no for an answer. It may have something to do with Eric getting up at 5:30 a.m. Although I'm not sure who trained who.

Dizzy is 15 now. We think her esophagus is collapsing. The vet says it's pretty common for Poms. It could be her heart, though. The exam to determine what the problem is costs $500. The cures are heart surgery at $10,000 or placing a stent in her esophagus, which again runs into the thousands.

With me not working, neither is an option. The best we can do for her is give her some cough medicine to easy her pain and pray it isn't her heart. Either way, the end is coming. I can hear it in her rasping breath and see it in her eyes when she stares at me for help that I can't give as she stuggles with a coughing fit.

I feel helpless. She was there for me when I needed her, but I can't seem to be able to return the favor. I feel like I'm letting her down. I hear the accusation with every cough.

I'm not sure what life will be like without her. It will be quieter, the air will be a little fresher, we may get a little more sleep, but there will be an immense emptiness. And if it's anything like when Toto died, the pain won't ease any time soon.

She's family and always will be. She's marked us in so many ways. We love you, Dizzy.