We had to put our elderly dog down last Friday. She was born December 21, 1992, so Zoe had a very long (and I think pretty good) life for a golden retriever/black lab mix.
Besides being sad at her death, and missing her almost perfect dog-ness, I find myself getting all teary-eyed about the traces she left behind. These are the reminders of over fifteen years of dog-ownership: treats and plastic bags for picking up poop stuffed in coat pockets, someone that's always happy to see you when get home, the last full vacuum cannister of dog hair (although we'll probably be finding remnants of dog hair as long as we live in this house), thinking we hear a whine or that we see her sprawled gracefully across the living room floor. The whine was my daughter's nose whistling after she crawled in bed with us at 5 am; the glimpse in the living room was a brown towel that my son dumped legos on to expedite pick-up.
Even the bare spot by the refrigerator where her food and water bowl sat reminds me that she'll never again walk up to me at the computer, lay her head on my thigh, and mutely ask to be petted.
