I had a Great Dane once who lived to be 14. That's terribly old for a Dane, but he wanted so much to stay. I would have to lift him up to go outside, and he'd shuffle out like the little old man he was. Even when it was time for him to go, and I had to make the decision (the one we all dread) he fought to stay.
I really wish God had given them longer lives. But the time they are with us is worth all the pain at losing them. It get's better.
The curate thinks you have no soul;
I know that he has none. But you,
Dear friend, whose solemn self-control,
In our foursquare familiar pew,
Was pattern to my youth -- whose bark
Called me in summer dawns to rove --
Have you gone down into the dark
Where none is welcome -- none may love?
I will not think those good brown eyes
Have spent their life of truth so soon;
But in some canine paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill,
Seeking his master... As for me,
This prayer at least the gods fulfill;
That when I pass the flood and see
Old Charon by the Stygian coast
Take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful, barking ghost
May leap to lick my phantom hand.
-- St.John Lucas