The death of a pet is a grief unlike any other. And when the death is a decision we have made, it is cast into an ambiguous category of loss.

One that we don’t want to talk about.

We say euthanize, and sometimes that term helps. It helps to neutralize what we are feeling, and to distance us from the act – the act of taking a life.

Because, of course, what we are doing is killing a beautiful, vigorous animal.

Last week, my husband and I decided to put our dog Theo “down.” I suppose I am still in shock; I hope that writing these words will help some.

Theo was a huge, big-hearted, loyal, coon hound mix who lived for our family’s love. He was disinterested in other dogs or squirrels, or even treats – he was just partial to people – specifically me and Mac. And Lewis, always Lewis.

He waited every afternoon between five and six, pacing at every window, for Mac to come home.

He watched over the baby chicks without incident, never chased the backyard flock, and joyfully welcomed a second dog into the house.

He could hear the UPS driver from a half a mile away, and wanted nothing more than to jump, full body, onto his shoulders and lick his face.

He adored me, and sat on my lap – all 95 pounds of him – every afternoon when I read my book.

And in the evenings, he galloped, tethered to Mac’s bike, long tongue hanging to one side, with the neighbors laughing as they made way.

A perfect dog.

Except that Theo had one defect: he was a food guarder. Meaning, if anyone got between him and something he really wanted, he would bite.

Last week he bit me. He had done it a handful of times before, but this time felt like a tipping point. I researched, talked to vets, and mostly struggled with my own conscience, to decide what to do.

There was no right or wrong decision, all of it felt wrong.

There is a particular shame in euthanizing a dog. If you’ve had to do it, you know what I’m saying.

Playing God, or using our power over another creature, makes us feel guilty.

Because these animals are vulnerable, and they come to us for protection and care. And it feels like a betrayal of trust.

It is unjust – Theo didn’t even know what we were having to do. He had no voice in the matter.

Yes, he was just a dog. Just a sweet, goofy mutt.

But he had a fierce love, not unlike my own.

My own love that has been so crazy hard, so exasperating, so intense.

Loving a puppy is easy; they give you so much. The pure innocence. The need to please. The forgiving nature. The complete devotion.

But loving a problematic dog is a special kind of heartache.

Loving the not-so-perfect. Loving the hard-headed, stubborn, difficult one.

Loving the temperamental, unpredictable, even dangerous dog.

But also loving the dog who looked at me from the cage of the Durham ASPCA shelter and said take me home, please.

My friend tells me that maybe not every creature is meant to stay here on earth with us. Because maybe this world is too imperfect to truly love a complicated dog like him.

And so maybe it was never Theo’s defect, but rather the world’s inability to accommodate him.

But if I could have understood, or helped, in any other ways, of course, I would have. And, despite his biting, he was such a good boy.

Too good for me to truly understand how to love him in the way he required.

And I want to believe that in some other, more perfect world, I’d be able to love and understand him the way he could me.

I take full responsibility for his death, just as I did for his little life when I brought him home from the shelter. I told him I would care for him forever, but that time has fallen short.

Emptiness, heartache, and such a feeling of loss, that I cry a little, in the afternoon, when I try to read in my chair. I can still feel his hot, heavy weight on my legs and the way my circulation would cut off. But today my legs are light, with no silky black hairs shaking off them.

And in my heart – where there should be a doggy fullness, there is only a jagged hole.

Mac has scattered Theo’s ashes on the roadway, where he loved to run. And when I close my eyes, I can imagine that hound-dog face with the huge, drooley smile, racing alongside him.

He loved just being alive, in the night air, next to Mac. He could run forever if my husband had asked him to.

My Theo, my big sweet boy, I hope your huge heart can forgive me.