It’s never easy to lose a pet. And it’s very difficult to make the decision to have one put to sleep. That’s where I stood with my golden retriever, Henry. His seizures were getting worse. The good folks at Medina Veterinary Clinic tried tweaking his medication, but the fixes were temporary.

I faced the inevitable in a conversation with the vet. I knew what he was going to say but I was wishing he wouldn’t. Henry’s prospects were discouragingly dire.

It was Friday and all morning at work, I thought I’d get the courage in the afternoon to take him to the vet for the final procedure. Today was going to be the day.

When I got home and looked at his big sad eyes, I gently stroked his forehead. He licked my hand in acknowledgment as if to ask “What’s happening to me?”

“I don’t know, buddy. And I don’t know what to do.” But I did realize that I couldn’t do it then. It was so final. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

“Not today, Henry,” I told him. “Don’t worry — not today.” I struggled in an effort to stay composed and convince myself that tomorrow somehow would never come.

Saturday did come and Henry was struggling. I called the clinic and they said they’d gotten far too busy — it would be better if I came in on Monday, at about noon. That was fine, I said. So, I went out to the dog and spoke softly, telling him, again “Not today, Henry.”

I went back inside to read the newspaper but it was useless. I couldn’t stop replaying the memories in my mind. His show-off dancing and prancing. And he was always there when I needed him — always there, when I needed someone to just listen. Gosh, he’s been a good dog.

Allow me to shift gears and reminisce of stories that I’ve written about Henry in the past. There was the time last summer on the river when he got tangled in the water under the dock. He was barely able to keep his head above the surface. Hearing his gurgling yelps, I was able to jump in and pull his furry tail to safety.

When we had reached the security of dry land, I realized that I had my cell phone in my pocket. It was obviously ruined. I’ll never forget the sheepish look on his face when he tried to break the tension as he dead-panned “Can you hear me now?” Gosh, he was a funny dog.

And less than a week later — as I once detailed — I dropped another phone in the river as a direct result of a Henry-nudge.

“Well, canine-coolbreeze,” I told him at the time, “You’re a retriever — go retrieve it.”

“No can do.”

“‘No can do’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you forget?” he said non-nonchalantly, “I’m a GOLDEN retriever — not a cell-phone retriever.” Gosh, he could also be such a jerk.

Back to reality: It was Sunday, I looked for a glimmer of hope; there was none. I was hoping against hope. If he’d just come out of his stupor, maybe, I could prolong the inevitable. He showed no indication that was going to happen.

I ached over what I had to do. My dilemma was rooted in guilt. Was I taking him in to be euthanized to ease his burden or mine? Was I making the right decision? I came to the conclusion that’s a normal emotion. I had to be strong and commit. He was going in at noon on Monday when I got back from work. I had to pull myself together to do this

Early Monday morning, I was able to leash him up outside. He showed a small sense of recognition, which meant slight improvement — but not nearly enough. He had four hours left. I went to work and stopped by the vet’s office to let them know I’d be back with Henry in a couple of hours. It seemed like I thought of him every second all through the morning. But it was now noon and I was on my way home to pick him up.

I pulled into the driveway and methodically pulled the tailgate down on my truck. I walked around the house to the backyard with no idea of what to expect.

And then, there he was: It was like he’d never been sick. He was standing up, his tail wagging and dancing — he was happy. It was as though he was expecting me to unleash him, as usual, and let him loose to chase that damn squirrel that had bothered him all morning. And that’s exactly what I did. But not before I hugged that 70-pound fleabag and told him the governor just called and he had a “stay.”

“What’s a stay?” he asked.

“It means: Not today, Henry.”

He grinned, the way only Henry can — and smirked, “Can you hear me now?”

And, happily, that’s the way it looks from the Valley.

Tom Valley is a Medina resident. His column runs every Thursday. Write to Tvalley@rochester.rr.com.