Ours was a case of mistaken identity ... at least on my part.

It was 15 years ago that I spotted her, romping with some other dogs at the end of the block. The black coat, with brown on the chest and legs, made me think that my chihuahua had somehow gotten loose.

I shut off the car, stepped onto the driveway and called to her. As she bounded up the street toward me, it became clear that this dog, weighing about 25 pounds, wasn’t my chihuahua.

The lack of any proper introduction made no difference to this friendly stray. I had called her, and she heeded the call — for life.

“Lady,” as she came to be known, hung around the front door of my house for three days before I relented and bought her a collar. She was mine. I became her “daddy.”

We both have grown through the years, learning from our experiences and growing older with as much grace as possible.

But grace and dignity are fleeting. My heart has ached over the past couple of years, as I first noticed she could no longer jump onto the couch to snuggle up to me. Later, I noted her eyes would no longer light up when I returned home like they did that first day and the thousands of days since.

In fact, she couldn’t even see or hear me arrive. Lately, I have agonized as she paced relentlessly, obviously confused and possibly in pain.

I have joked while speaking of her to others, noting that she was “old enough to drive.” Perhaps my attempts at humor were just a weak attempt to hide some personal pain.

“Is it time?” I kept asking myself as I saw my precious, feeble companion pace and stumble. As a “daddy,” how could I even think about putting an end to our long, happy relationship? But how could I let her live this way?

For the past few months I cherished her increasingly sporadic lucid moments as much as possible, but last week it became apparent that the time had come. I could no longer afford to be selfish. I had to be humane.

So I dialed the veterinarian’s office. And I cried. I took her for the last of our many car rides together. And I cried.

Once at the veterinarian’s office, she fidgeted on the metal examination table as I held her tightly, stroked her fur and looked into those tired, cataract-clouded eyes one more time.

“Thank you for 15 years as my best friend,” I told her under my breath as I gave her greying forehead a little peck. As much as I wanted to have her around, I wanted her to have peace even more.

I whispered my affection to her as the first needle entered her vein. I kissed the top of her head again as that initial sedative took effect, and she relaxed into my arms. Then the second needle entered her vein.

In a moment it was over.

And, of course, I cried.

But there was no more fidgeting, no more pacing and no more pain.

Well, at least on her part.

Rick Dunaway, a sports reporter for the News-Press, is a 1977 graduate of Missouri Western State University He began his journalism career with the News-Press as a sports writer from 1973 to 1978 and returned in 1998. He and his wife, Pam, reside in St. Joseph. He is a father of three and grandfather of six.