There’s a strange moment in time, after something horrible happens, when you know it’s true but you haven’t told anyone yet. Of all things, that is what I remember most. It was so quiet.  

Barbara Kingsolver, from the Poisonwood Bible.

So—we are a dog family. Always have been. Before we had kids, my husband and I had a dog. A secondhand dog, like most of our subsequent dogs. In 44 years of marriage, we’ve had six great dogs, with divergent personalities and backstories. Two of our dogs were named Blue (neither was named by us). One dog thought she was a cat—you know, aloof and entirely self-interested. Another flunked out of leader dog school, and one was a beautiful golden retriever named after a Supreme Court Justice. One died, of a snakebite, about 15 minutes before my son’s 6^th birthday party.

And the last dog we had was named Atticus. Putting that in the past tense is still hard, although we had to put Atticus down—over the Rainbow Bridge, as they say—in July.

Atticus was found in a Walmart parking lot, a stray, and—good fortune!—taken to a Humane Society in southwestern Michigan which partners with Lakeland Correctional Facility in a program called Refurbished Pets, in which selected dogs are placed in the prison, and inmates care for and train them. Before residing in the prison, foster families care for the dogs, which are often in rough shape.

Atticus was cleaned up and civilized by a wonderful woman named Jean, then entered the RP training program. As it happens, my husband, a criminal defense lawyer, had a client at Lakeland. At a visit, his client, a leader in the dog training program, asked if we might be interested in a great dog. We were in that sweet spot of not owning a dog, where you can travel and go out for the day without worrying about your pet, having lost Annie (the cat-dog) a few months earlier. We hadn’t yet discussed getting another dog.

What’s the dog’s name? my husband asked. Atticus.

And that was that.

We picked Atticus up from Jean’s house. She showed us how good he was at chasing balls, and gave us a thundershirt because Atticus was terrified of storms. She told us he had some “trust issues” but was, at heart, a very good boy. The vet that donated time to Refurbished Pets thought he was about three years old. Thinking about Atticus on his own, riding out storms and scrounging for food, broke our hearts. He was instantly, and irretrievably, our boy.

For the next eleven years, Atticus slept on a cozy bed in the corner of our bedroom and traveled with us—seven times—from Michigan to Arizona, an excellent backseat traveler. Whatever trust issues he had melted away, although he still whined from his bed when there was thunder and lightning.

Of all the dogs we ever had, Atticus was the most food-driven. We got in the habit of storing things in cupboards and the microwave, because anything left on the counter, or the kitchen island was bait. Once, my son and some of his friends bought some gourmet, $$$ cookies while touring northern Michigan, and left them in bags and boxes within striking range. When they returned home, Atticus had eaten most of them and hidden the rest. For the next year, we found cookies under couch cushions, in a bookshelf, and in a laundry basket.

About a year ago, Atticus (probably 14 by now) was showing signs of age: He panted constantly. He paced, all night long. It obviously hurt to lower his back end to the ground, and steps were problematic. The vet said his heart was enlarged, and gave him a medication that caused indoor accidents, something he’d never had before, and made him feel terrible. Plus—he had a collection of symptoms that might be called “acting weird.”

It was time. We were both there, petting him, feeding him treats, holding his paw, as his tail slowly thumped, then stopped. Afterward, I didn’t feel like sharing the news, or posting a photo. It was, as Barbara Kingsolver says, so very quiet.

He was our dog from the wrong side of the tracks, 100% dog, prone to drifting off during walks in the woods (but always returning) and always—until the last year or so—down to pursue a ball or chew up a stuffed toy, especially one that belonged to another dog.

After we made the appointment with the vet, I took a dozen photos of Atticus panting and pacing around the living room, his last afternoon on earth. Here’s one.