In the four years that followed Hank' s death， Bonnie tried to put her life back together. She was up-and-down， but mostly down. She lived with the frustration of not having said good-bye， of not having the opportunity to said all of the things she wanted to say， of not being able to comfort him， soothe him， help him leave his life and move into the next. She wasn' t prepared for this kind of ending. It was not the way she wanted her best friend， her lover， her partner to die.
When Bonnie finished talking， we both sat in silence for a while. Finally said， "Would you like Cassie' s death to be different from Hank' s？ I' m talking now， Bonnie， about euthanasia. With euthanasia， you won' t have to worry about coming home from work and finding Cassie dead，and you can ensure that she won' t die in pain. If we help Cassie die by euthanasia， you can be with her， hold her， talk to her and comfort her. You can peacefully send her on to the next life. The choice is up to you."
Bonnie' s eyes opened wide. Her shoulders relaxed and her face softened in relief.
"I just need control this time，" she said. "I want this death to be different from Hank' s—for my girl."
The decision was made to euthanize Cassie that afternoon. I left the two of them alone， and Bonnie and Cassie spent the next few hours lying outside under the maple tree.
When it was time， Bonnie brought Cassie into the client comfort room， an area that those of us associated with The Changes Program had adapted to be more conducive to humane animal death and client grief.
The dog was lying down by Bonnie， who was on the floor on a soft pad. Bonnie began to pet and talk to her. "There you are， girl. You' re right here by Mom. Everything is okay."
The time for euthanasia arrived and Cassie was sleeping peacefully， her head resting on Bonnie' s stomach. She looked comfortable， very much at ease. Dr. Bush whispered， "May we begin the procedure？" And Bonnie nodded in affirmation.