This is not the tale of an old pet whose time had come. This is the story of Magenta, our 9 year old terrier-mix “diva” who tenaciously guarded her food, her toys, and her people, and was the smartest dog I’ve ever known.
We first met Magenta four years ago. Our pug, Emmitt, had died of old age in the spring. Our other pug, Kody was not far behind. I don’t remember what first drew us to her (does any pet need a reason?) but soon enough she joined our beagle, Riley and our cat, JB.
The one thing we didn’t know about her? She was very possessive. God forbid you try to stop her from her mission, whether it be digging under the shed for an unknown critter, taking a toy from her without her permission, or reaching down to pick up a morsel of fallen food. You did not mess with Magenta.
Eventually–after more than one altercation where I came out the loser–Magenta and I gained an understanding: I would always ask first. “Can I take your toy?” “Are you done with your dinner?” Ever-so-slightly bared teeth was the only message I needed: “NO WAY IN HELL!”
In the past months, Magenta had visibly aged. The few bits of white on her paws and behind her legs began to take over. Black became “black and white”. Her belly, her chin–she was becoming an old dog in front of our eyes.
But she still had the Magenta spirit. The Magenta snarl. And, really, we had no idea that something was seriously wrong inside.
In April the vet told us she had an enlarged heart and would need medicine. No problem. She had an appointment for an MRI last Monday and we would know more.
She never made it to Monday.
Saturday evening she was lethargic. When bedtime came she wouldn’t come upstairs with us. I was worried. When I went downstairs she lay at the foot of the stairs and feebly wagged her tail when I petted her. At 3 am I got up for a bathroom break and found her moved to a different location but still lethargic. I checked her breathing, got another weak wag.
I went back upstairs, gave Charlie her status. He went to check on her, immediately came back upstairs and said, “I’m taking her to the emergency vet.”
He came home without her. Her belly was full of bloody fluid; the vet thought it might be liver cancer. Either way her life would have been uncomfortable at best–painful at worst. We couldn’t let her suffer.
The house feels too quiet without her barking at every noise, growling at Georgie for coveting her food. We know she is in a better place. But we sure do miss her, bites and all.
Susannah Willey Writes 
RIP Magenta, a feisty, protective hound. It’s a sad ending, but you guys did right by her.
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