Gone.

He was the family dog.

Five years old, and now, like all other pets, he lived to make you smile and died to make you cry.

For the first three years, his health was perfect. A model bulldog, the vet said. Full of charm, mellow, he defended the pack he was now a part of. We'd never had a purebred before, and his hefty price was soon outweighed by his enormous personality. He became a fixture in the neighborhood. Neighbors stopped by to see him, and strangers would knock on our door and sheepishly proclaim:

"We live in Michigan, but we saw your dog while we were driving by and had to see him up close."

They did that for the next three summers, for each vacation.

But eighteen months ago, he had a seizure. Carolina temperatures that rest in the 80's can do that to bulldogs we were told, so we thought it was a matter of course. The fits increased, they strengthened. He was a mess. Confused, whimpering, helpless. So were we.

The vet put him on meds, after trying to CSI-out every possible cause. We were left with the most powerful and most humbling answer:

That's the way he is.

The anti-seizure medicine turned him into Elvis, 1976. Wandering around the house, losing control of his functions and picking up a habit that eventually killed him.

The phenobarbital made him "chewy". For a dog that never put his powerful jaws on anything except his meals, everything in reach was destroyed by the bone crushing PSI crouching in his mouth. Once that medication entered his system, his judgment disappeared. Chewed, crushed. And then swallowed. Wood, plastics, electrical cords.

That dangerous side effect didn't become apparent until he got hold of Xmas decorations last December, after he'd cleared off the bottom ring of ornaments. He ate three or four Styrofoam apples and oranges, all life size. He shocked his system, it shut down, and he needed a gut clearing operation. Or euthanasia.

He got the reprieve, but we caught him chewing on things 24 hours after he got home. Once, he was behind the tree, having gotten over a sizable barrier we built to keep him away from the cords on the light strands. We fished him out, only to find the end of the cord gone. Did he have a death wish - an "I can't take this anymore" mentality?

He got his wish. Three weeks ago, he started showing signs of ingesting something foreign. Seizures increased, as his body attempted to rid itself of the offending element.

Operation Number Two ensued, and he cleared the fence. I arrived home in time to greet his return from the hospital. But when I knocked, he didn't bark back at me. He always woofed from his perch and then came to the door. I hadn't been home in a awhile, so his change of habit was odd. And noted.

My daughter said, wistfully, "He's like that now, Daddy. The seizures have changed him. He's not the same dog anymore".

Once inside, he greeted me in his usual fashion, albeit a bit sedate. Which I understood - he was just out of triage. Our evening progressed, and he and I went out for his last walk of the night. I urged him along, he did his business. When we went back in the house, he did his u-turn inside the kennel, and looked for his treat.

I gave him his reward (two, in fact), as was our agreement, and I dropped one on the floor. He saw it, couldn't get to it. I picked it up, put it into his mouth, and he licked my hand.

We said goodnight for the last time.

He was gone the next morning.

Farley (Celtic for "from the bull meadow") got to the vet for a follow-up and just faded away. His breathing slowed, his pupils dilated, almost as if he was opening his eyes as wide as they could go - preparing to view and understand for whatever was next; even if it was simple hope: rescue from the seizures.

Gone.

Those of us who are animal owners, or those who pay attention to the fact that communication isn't always verbal or relegated to only one species at a time, know that their pet understands the role they play in their house. And you both understand it.

While I was away, he was the pack leader. He ruled the house, and protected his brood. When I came into the house, he went back to Second Lieutenant. Reluctantly, I might add.

In his last hours, he decided the pack leader had returned, and he could relax.

He could let go.

His watch was over.