My best friend is dying. His name is Juneau. He is not in physical pain (his veterinarian reassures me time and time again), but he is not the same Juneau. Well, he is the same soul—but now his body is made of paper, and his deteriorating brain makes him seem sad. Maybe not sad—perhaps just indifferent or confused; either way, it’s heartbreaking to see.

Juneau is my dog. I rescued him from a pound when I was a senior in college. He was eight weeks old, ridiculously cute and happy, extremely hyper, and always mischievous. At four months old he decided to take a bite out of a nightlight that was plugged into the wall. After almost electrocuting himself, he swallowed all of the broken bits of glass. At six months old he chewed through the cap of a bottle of Advil—300 count. And he ate them all. I took him to the doggie emergency room, unconscious. By some miracle, as the vet called it, he survived.

Over the next 12 years, Juneau hung out with me at the park and on beach vacations. He moved with me from place to place—about 10 apartments so far—all the while his tail wagging with excitement of a new adventure. He became friends with my friends and my boyfriends. And when a relationship ended, Juneau would sit patiently in front of me as I cried, his head on my lap. When I got back on my feet, he’d hate my ex-boyfriend right along with me.

But in his 12^th year everything changed. Juneau started to lose weight, along with his interest in tennis balls, snow, and swimming. Some days he wouldn’t even get up. He became touchy, growling at me if I pet him when he wasn’t feeling social. So I began the months-long process of visits to the vet, tests, and more tests. But there was nothing wrong with Juneau. I was relieved, of course, but also frustrated. If they had found something, I could, hopefully, fix it. But instead, I was faced with a dog I hardly recognized anymore, who seemed, in a word, sad. The vet assured me he wasn’t in any physical pain. He was just getting old.

A year later Juneau weighs just 45 pounds. He used to weigh 90. Although he can still stand up, he frequently collapses because his legs give out. I often come home to find him stuck in a corner, staring at the wall (the vet says he has “doggie” Alzheimer’s) and he spends most of his time lying in his bed. He sometimes can’t get up in the morning and I have to go in late to work. He can no longer control his bowels and often goes to the bathroom in the elevator, on the way out of my apartment building; so now I have to put him in a diaper for the ride down.

The truth is, that while I am really sad, I’m also really tired. Tired of cleaning up his accidents and of feeling stressed every time I take him in the elevator. Tired of not being able to go away, even for a weekend to visit my family, because Juneau is too fragile to leave with just anyone. And tired of the stares and questions I get on the street when we’re out for a walk. “Is he OK? He looks sick. Maybe you should take him to the vet?” Yes, I know! I love him. I’ve taken care of him for 13 years. How dare you think I’d neglect my own dog.

But most of all, I’m tired of feeling guilty that I’m tired of it all.

I’ve gone through every emotion possible. I’ve wished the vet would tell me it was “time,” so I could, in good conscience, lay him to rest. Then I’ve felt empty and sad at the mere thought of him being gone. I’ve raised my voice in frustration upon discovering the fifth accident of the week in my living room, then, knowing he couldn’t help it, spent the next three guilt-ridden hours lying next to him on the floor, hating myself for getting upset with him. I’ve felt sorry for myself. I’ve felt more sorry for him.

Juneau turned 13 in February. We went to Petco and got some special treats, like any other birthday. He seemed happy. And I feel so lucky and thankful that he made it to another birthday. What’s become clear to me is this: Yes, it’s hard. But someday, I’m going to miss him immensely. So right now, I’m just going to enjoy my time with him, because I know there isn’t a lot of time left to enjoy. The fact is, he is old. But he is the same Juneau I’ve known for 13 years. He still manages to muster up enough energy to try to steal food off my plate. He still perks up every now and then on our walks when he sees a squirrel, and even sometimes chases them! He still smiles. And I know in my heart that he’s happy. And he wants to live. And that’s all that really matters.

Juneau sadly passed away on June 29, 2008.