Partly because of the full lives we lead, and partly because we’re slightly scattered and kind of like to procrastinate, we have always been last minute packers.

A week before a trip, we will consider the glories of getting out the door at 7:30 in the morning, kids fed, van packed and ready to go; we pretend that this is a reality we can accomplish, that we will not do, as we have done time and time again, the late-night-before packing job, the last minute rush around the house in the morning, gathering up all the things we forgot to set beside the door before running to the car, three hours past our EDT.

Next time, we swear, next time, it will be different.

I would often excuse myself for our irresponsibly timed departures by blaming them on our dog, Ivy. The pack dog of all pack dogs, Ivy did not like being left alone. Her mood dropped as soon as we pulled out the suitcases. She would stare woefully at us as we packed our things, lying in the middle of the bedroom, in front of our chest of drawers, to make the work of getting ready for a trip that much harder. She’d perk up if I said, “You get to go!”, of course, but if I didn’t, we were in for a lot of guilt and long sighs.

Her forlorn behavior was a scapegoat for my delayed preparedness, but a good one. Who would want to make this dog sad?

No one, who has any heart at all.

But for this trip, I won’t have any excuses, because Ivy surprised us by packing a suitcase of her own last week. She woke up last Wednesday morning without an appetite & no interest in her morning walk. She seemed depressed. I took her to our vet, who quickly diagnosed her with Hemangiosarcoma – an especially lethal cancer that, in her case, created a tumor on her spleen that ruptured, causing internal bleeding. She was sent to the hospital, where we were given her prognosis: 1-3 weeks, at best.

This past Monday, just five days after her diagnosis, we knew she’d given us everything she had. It was time to say goodbye.

  …

Ivy was, first and foremost, Andrew’s and my dog. The kids appreciated her good points, enjoyed their walks with her, tolerated her, gave her a lot of extra food, made space for her in our home and in our life, and they loved her “a little,” as our four year old noted, but they didn’t exactly claim her.

She was, largely, the product and boon companion of our early marriage, shaped by our devotion. We took her everywhere she was allowed, and some places she wasn’t – on hikes and leash-less walks, to duck ponds, reservoirs and lakes; on picnics, to restaurants, and on every trip we possibly could.

She had a high opinion of herself, and an even higher opinion of us.

She had a large enough vocabulary to walk on voice-command; Andrew could restrain her from chasing a squirrel just by saying, “Hold.”

She had a large enough heart to see us through and cover us with love upon learning of the death of my dad and Andrew’s dad’s devastating stroke. And in 2007, after two weeks of wondering why Ivy wouldn’t leave my side and had suddenly become aggressive with other dogs, I found out I was pregnant with Claire. Somehow, she’d known.

She was there to witness and celebrate the arrivals and steady development of each of our three children. She provided comfort and joy in so many in-between moments I could never keep a tally. She was special to, if not revered by, our friends and extended family, a fixture in our lives and, therefore, theirs.

When we started planning this trip in the minivan, Ivy was actually slated to go with us.

But as the plan developed, we realized her presence might complicate what was already shaping up to be a pretty ambitious trip. Nevada would be too hot for her; we wouldn’t be able to leave her in the car for long, if at all, wherever we went; and, finally, she might get turned down at the border between the U.S. & Canada – on the way into Canada, OR on the way back into the States. (Just because your dog is American doesn’t mean they’ll let it back in.) So, we made arrangements for friends to keep her for a while, and we tried not to tip her off.

When Ivy fell ill last Wednesday, the day after BessieBreaksAway launched, a friend who had stayed the night with us joked that she’d read the blog.

She was, after all, almost human.

Losing Ivy in this time of transition and uncertainty (albeit an uncertainty we have chosen) has possibly made her loss all the more heartbreaking. You don’t know how much you count on hearing the faithful tap of claws on hardwood at the end of every day until they no longer come.

But at the same time, we are so grateful for the years we had with her, for the reminder that life is short and that every moment counts, and for the providential timing of her sweet, dignified departure – her parting gift to us.