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The vets said she'd never make it past 8 years old, with the damage done to her body as a pup from the horrid distemper virus and then from the neurological side-effects the disease leaves behind. Nobody told Maggie this. Even when the arthritis in her hips became severe, Maggie hardly ever passed up an opportunity to hike. Stoic, brave, determined, these were the words to use to describe Maggie. Yet she was also friendly, loving, happy, playful.

So it was hard for Maggie to let go. In the last week, we watched her condition from liver cancer worsen, though the time-release morphine patch kept the pain at bay. But in her eyes, there was life. Death from cancer was to be a slow dance on her terms. If the doorbell rang, she got up. Every morning, I'd let her out my office door into the backyard. She'd walk about 10 yards and stop, then look slowly across the backyard from one side to the other, listening intently. She so loved the natural world, at one with its magic and wonder, even in the city.

On Tuesday the 18th, that changed. The fire in her eyes had faded. Everything was hard. Jennifer came over and gave her reiki and Maggie was peaceful for many hours. She asked to go outside in late afternoon, for she truly savored the changing tones of dusk, and Scooter carried her there. Even though gravely ill, she wanted to stay outside in the night, so we wrapped her in a blanket and she rested beneath my office window, facing out toward a star filled sky. We brought in her at bedtime and she lay in deep sleep in my office, the door open to let in the cool air and nature sounds that she enjoyed. I notified a few friends and shamanic guides, and sent emails to the liver-dog list serve where I'd been getting advice and support, and to the Pet Prayer Line, where many dozens of people prayed for her. We thought for sure she would pass that night.

Such was not to be. But that next morning, Wednesday the 19th though she asked as usual to go out, it was different. We could tell she'd finally

The vet and her assistant came to the bear cave. I could tell Maggie knew this was the final moment. She was brave and calm, a warrior to the end. The vet gave Maggie a deep tranquilizer shot, essentially inducing a comatose state, and then administered the euthanasia. They were kind. Scooter scooped Maggie's body into a large box I'd lined with blue fabric and sprinkled with jasmine blossoms. We took her out to the crematorium in Sasche and she was cremated that night around sunset, just as a wordwide Mayan meditation was taking place.

We'll take Maggie's ashes to Osage Moon of course. She truly found her inner wild dog exploring its fields and forests. Before we leveled the house at the Poplar Place, we dug up and potted an ancient rose bush that had bloomed in spite of neglect and ever-increasing shade from the poplars. On the next Full Moon, we'll mix Maggie's ashes in with the dirt when we replant the bush by the barn, where we can see Maggie continue in a rose as beautiful and tough as herself.

For weeks, we've been focused on Maggie's impending demise. Now the task is learning to adjust to life without Maggie. Hanna has moments of anxiety and times when she stares off distantly in a worried way. The cats seem to wonder where the big dog has gone. We put away Maggie's medicines, retired her dog bowl, cleaned her bedcovers, wrote her death date on the calendar, all these ritual actions we've developed over the years of losing pets. I grieve through gardening. Redoing the fence in the backyard meant the removal of large patches of ivy, especially around the lower pond. This afternoon, we began conceiving the Maggie Garden in the newly opened space. A small tribute to a big dog who loved so much.

Maggie: April 1, 1993 – January 10, 2005