She was a good girl.

My retired service dog died Tuesday at the age of 13. Her physical and metal health hadn't declined to the point that she wasn't moving on her own or engaging in her favorite activities (read: vacuuming up crumbs and hitting me when I stop petting her). She also passed naturally, unburdening me from heart-wrenching end of life decisions.

Below is my recollection of her final days. I apologize if this is needlessly graphic, but writing it out helps me process things.

Here she is lying next to her successor. She's the lighter-furred one on the right.