The decision to put a beloved animal to sleep is the most painful one to carry out that I've experienced in my lifetime. The answer is: Just do it! It doesn't matter how much it hurts me. My feelings aren't the issue here. We're talking about selfless compassion versus spineless self-indulgence.

How people respond to the needs of their animals as the end nears is, I strongly believe, a litmus test of their compassion, their courage, the depth of their character, their inner strength.

When we arrived in Phoenix, I met, through professional circles, a guy we'll call Stan Shultz. He was in charge of fundraising for a huge multihospital system in Arizona. Stan was the consummate politician; glad-handing was the foundation of his game. Scratch the surface, I thought, and you'll find there isn't much substance there. So I tolerated him, that's all.

In the '90s I had an important client in Southeastern Arizona, Tucson Medical Center Foundation. For 13 years, the foundation ran an annual event called the Greater Issues Series. Each year's affair was an elaborate dinner featuring an internationally prominent speaker. Across the years, the foundation presented luminaries ranging from former secretary of state Henry Kissinger to war correspondent Peter Arnet, columnist and Pulitzer Prize winner George F. Will to former national security advisor and ambassador to the United Nations Jean Kirkpatrick.

In the fall of 1996, Simon Peres, former prime minister of Israel, was the attraction. The purpose of the annual event was "friendraising" for the foundation. And due to intense interest in Middle East tensions, the several hundred attendees were a who's who of the movers and shakers from Tucson and much of Arizona.

As a consultant to the foundation, I considered it de rigueur that I support such efforts. So I ponied up a bundle and drove to Tucson for the dinner.

During the cocktail reception, I was struck by two things.

First, the place was crawling with American and Israeli secret service agents. And I could have sworn they were all watching me.

Second, Stan Shultz, sensing a splendid opportunity to brown-nose, was also in attendance (at his organization's expense) and vigorously working the room.

Eventually we were tossed together in the sea of dignitaries and secret service agents. By and by the conversation turned to dogs. Stan told me that only yesterday his family had lost their longtime canine member. The dog had come to them as a puppy and been part of the family for nearly 15 years.

"But he was getting old," Stan told me matter-of-factly, "and I figured it was time to have him put to sleep. So yesterday I dropped him off at the Humane Society."

What a gutless way to handle the passing of a dear old friend!

I don't remember what kind of rubber chicken we had for dinner that evening. I couldn't tell you one thing Simon Peres had to say. But I sure remember the words of Stan Shultz as he validated the assessment I had made years earlier: characterwise, there was simply nothing there.

And then there was Marlene and her sheltie, Ginger. They showed in obedience competition and did well in spite of the fact that Ginger had been severely coddled all her life. It's the same with every dog Marlene trains. They know all the exercises. What they don't know is how to function in the world.

Nevertheless, Ginger was making slow progress toward an OTCH when she began having persistent diarrhea. Metronidazole would stop the flow for a while, then it would start up again -- a cycle that was repeated many times for a year. All the while, veterinarians pressed Marlene to do more extensive diagnostic tests. But Marlene procrastinated, coming up with various rationalizations why not. It was clear to those who were close to her that she was afraid of what she might learn.

Finally, Ginger, losing weight and becoming weak, could no longer participate in obedience trials. She couldn't even practice the exercises at home. On the day Ginger collapsed, Marlene rushed her in for exploratory surgery. It was no surprise when the surgeon found that the dog's organs were riddled with cancer. "It would be best if we didn't bring her out of the anesthetic," he advised.

"No," Marlene said, "I don't want Ginger to die in some veterinarian's office."

So they closed Ginger's abdomen and Marlene took her home. At which point the vigil commenced. For weeks Marlene isolated herself with Ginger in a bedroom. Mostly, Marlene's contacts with the real world were limited to phone conversations with friends -- often a rambling hour or more in length.

"I just want to keep her a little while longer," she told me. Then rushed to assure me, "She's not suffering!"

What I wanted to do was drive over there, grab her by the shoulders, shake her and bellow in her face. Instead, I tried in the gentlest manner I could muster. "Marlene," I said, "what you need to do is look in the mirror and ask yourself, 'Whose needs am I meeting?'" Predictably, that accomplished nothing.

Eventually, Marlene went on the Internet and searched until she found out how she could euthanize the dog at home with pills. Then she acquired a large bottle from a vet who was a friend.

"I don't want her in the hands of any third party," she told me. Better, I thought, that the dog suffer at your hands than go peacefully and in a timely manner in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing.

Finally, after the pathetic saga had dragged on for weeks at the dog's expense, Marlene put the pills down Ginger's throat, one by gagging one, in sufficient quantity that Ginger finally succumbed.



Well, there'd be none of that here. Honeybear had given me her all -- performancewise and affectionwise -- for a lifetime. The day would come when I'd be compelled by intense love to suck it up and do what would be best for her.