Our kids called him Mr. Mozart. He was not exactly the poster dog for Labradors: When the dog was 4 months old, my husband threw him in a pond near our house, thinking he would instinctively begin swimming, but he sank like an anchor and has been terrified of water ever since.

In the early days, Mozart would escape out of the backyard through a gate that someone always left open. The neighborhood children and adults would run screaming his name as they chased after him through front lawns. No one could catch him. Eventually, he came home, dragging himself up the driveway, huffing and puffing, frothing at the mouth as if he'd run a marathon.

My husband and I love our dogs like we love our own kids, differently. Mozart never dug 4-foot ditches in the back yard, chewed on furniture legs or ate entire boxes of Girl Scout cookies. He remained the only dog in our family for almost 10 years. Until our youngest daughter pleaded with my husband and me to buy Mozart a brother.

At 4 months old, our new black Lab, named Whitman, chewed the leg off a rocking chair as if it were beef jerky. His well-developed nostrils made him an excellent retriever of Thin Mints and Peanut Butter Patties. It was only a matter of time before he learned to open the refrigerator.

Mozart showed little to no interest in playing with his blockhead brother. His face had turned almost completely gray, his body mass shrank to almost skeletal. Even his tail had changed. It no longer waved when one of us walked into the room. The instinct to run after birds or squirrels ceased. It became too much effort to bark at solicitors at the front door. He got up off the floor only to eat and go outside to pee and poop.

None of us wanted Mozart to suffer. But none of us wanted to let him go either. Up until the past six months, he lived a healthy 14 years (98 in dog years). I discussed Mozart's quality of life with his vet, who informed me that Mozart's health would not improve. We prepared our children for the unavoidable. When the children were away on holiday, my husband and I decided to have Mozart euthanized at home rather than having it done in the vet's office.

My husband and I knelt down on the floor next to Mozart. My husband rubbed his neck and said, "You've been a good ol' boy."

I kissed Mozart's head and told him we loved him. I said he was the perfect dog, the perfect friend. And I thanked him for helping us teach our children love and compassion.

On a sunny day in the summer of 2007, at 4:30 p.m., a black SUV pulled up in front of our house. Mozart's veterinarian walked up the front steps carrying a small black bag. His assistant followed behind carrying a stretcher.

Mozart didn't get up when all of us walked into the kitchen. Only his eyes rose to meet us. The four of us sat down on the floor next to him. My husband held Mozart's paw, while I scratched his favorite spot — his right hind leg.

The vet gave Mozart a sedative to relax him. While we waited for the drug to take effect, we reminisced.

My husband and I spoke about the many times Mozart listened to one of our child's troubles. Behind a bedroom door a child's muffled cries could be heard. Eventually Mozart was let out — his fur soaked with tears. When our kids became too cool to kiss Mom or Dad, Mozart received their affections.

"Have you both had enough time with him?" the vet asked.

Fourteen years was not long enough, I thought.

My husband nodded to go ahead.

The vet injected Mozart one last time.

Mozart snored a loud snore. His heart stopped.

The vet and his assistant lifted Mozart's body onto the stretcher, covered him with a blanket and carried him out the front door.

The entire week a steady stream of people offered their condolences by phone. Friends sent cards, dropped off flowers and baked cookies. Mozart made more friends than some humans do in a lifetime.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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