It was 2001, and I was 14 years old. My family had gathered in the veterinarian’s office. It was three months after we had moved to Folsom from New Hampshire.

There was a mound of white fur with black spots on the veterinarian’s table. It used to be my dog Sheeba, an Australian Shepherd-Labrador mix. My sister. My best friend for 10 years.

Bone cancer had stolen her ability to walk three days prior to the visit to the vet. She had been in pain and we all knew it.

For those three days, she had been laid out on blankets and sheets in the living room. That way, if she needed to relieve herself, or if she died, we could easily clean up the mess.

We wanted her death to be painless and perfect. It was the least we could do, after everything she had done for us.

She was laid out on a table with a veterinarian standing over her. The waiting room was full of inconsolable men &- my three brothers and me.

We were strewn about the place, bodies contorted in our sadness.

Earlier that year I had tried to kill myself. No one knew about it at the time, except Sheeba.

She was the one who I talked to when I hated the world. And when she would rest her head against me, I knew she understood.

Even if she didn’t know what I was saying, she knew I needed someone to care.

Sheeba had been my substitute for getting real help. That is not to say she cured my depression. She didn’t even make it go away for a little bit, but she saved my life by just being there. Now, in the waiting room, I couldn’t help her when she needed me. I couldn’t even stand being in the same room as her, when the vet came in with the syringe.

I walked out to the waiting room after kissing her head. My mom and dad were rubbing her, whispering “It’s going to be all right, girl.”

Nick, my oldest brother, had found Dr. Seuss’s Hop On Pop lying on a stack of books in the corner. It had been my favorite book as a child. He had it open, his lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear him over the images running through my head.

I could see the needle going in and the world leaving her eyes.The veterinarian came out to let us see her. Inside, my parents were still stroking her fur. The table was dripping with urine &- for three days she had refused to soil herself.

My mom compared the feeling to what it must be like to kill your own child.

This wasn’t something we could just forget. We couldn’t say, “She’s just a dog.”

She had been us for 10 years, almost two thirds of my life.My earliest memory is of us sitting in front of a Christmas tree together, both looking up at the lights that wrapped around the pine needles.

And I had abandoned her when she needed me to return all the love she had given me. My only consolation is that she had a quick death.

And since she’s been gone, I am left with two things that I will always keep with me: the wallet-sized photo of her, and memories of the best friend I’ve ever had.David Loret de Mola can be reached at [email protected]