I typically use this space to recount the humorous things that happen to me as a woman negotiating life at 51. This week, however, my dog died. After that, nothing seemed very funny.

We owned Spike for 14 years. Or, more accurately, he owned us.

My kids and I vividly remember the moment we met. Strolling through the pens at the Humane Society, we were overwhelmed by all kinds of hyper dogs in “pick me” mode – barking, whining, jumping up on the chain link, reaching out as if to say, “Get me out of here! I’m beggin’ you, buddy!”

We stopped at the cage of a tiny, black-and-white pooch, sitting patiently on the concrete floor, his tail wagging like crazy. His eyes were smiling up at his new family.

Spike had us at “hello.” He made our choice easy.

At home, he was the perfect dog. For exactly one week. At that point, he probably figured out we weren’t likely to give him the boot and became – as Oprah’s dog whisperer might say – pathologically territorial.

His daily mission was to fight to the death anyone exhibiting the slightest sign of invading his home and hurting the humans who took him in. At a measly 12 pounds, the chance of inflicting any real harm to invaders was slim. So Spike did what any self-respecting lightweight mutt would do to protect his turf: He barked.

He barked at the mail carrier; he barked at solicitors. He barked at the kids’ friends and grandparents. He barked at anyone who dared to darken our driveway by walking past on the sidewalk. (Scoundrels! Woof, woof, woof!) He barked at company who came to dinner. To our dismay, he even nipped at a few heels that ventured too close to his sleeping quarters.

In his youth, he was full of fire. There wasn’t a squirrel within eyeshot that was safe from Spike’s wrath. As an escape artist, he rivaled The Great Houdini himself. Leave the door open just a crack (Silly, absentminded humans!) and he would take off for a short-lived but exhilarating taste of freedom. No matter how far he roamed, though, he always came back home.

My husband used to say he had great “ups.” Less than a foot tall, he could leap onto the window seat and bark at those pesky passers-by through the Levolor blinds. He’d high-jump onto the sofa to nestle in his favorite spot, a deep pocket in the back cushion. There, he would nap and wait for us to come home. As we pulled into the garage, we could see him through the window, watching us with perked ears, his tail wagging like crazy.

He loved us, sometimes to a fault.

Spike was ALWAYS underfoot. Cooking dinner required dainty moves and a constant, wary eye to the floor as he hovered below (although I can’t say definitively whether his motive was loyalty or the possibility of food scraps falling from the counter).

If his humans were watching TV at dinnertime, he would carry a mouthful of food from his bowl in the kitchen to the family room, drop it onto the carpet, then munch away, one morsel at a time, enjoying the pleasure of our company.

As time wore on, he lost some of his energy. He barked less and less, and needed a boost into his nesting place on the sofa. In the past year, he lost much of his vision. He couldn’t hear. Arthritis had set in his hind leg, and his mind was going. He started staring into space and pacing the floor at night. His tail lost its wag.

Last Sunday, Spike hit the skids – walking into walls, getting stuck in corners. He was sick and confused. Then, the seizures started. There was nothing anyone could do.

On Monday, with the convulsions coming every hour, we called the kids and made a family decision. Together, we drove Spike to the vet and pet him – four big hands on his tiny body – while the doctor prepared the injection.

Before she could find the vein, he went into one final, horrifying seizure, as if to say, “Get me out of here. I’m beggin’ you, buddy!” The doctor put a tiny gas mask over his face, and in a few seconds he was, mercifully, asleep. As the needle went into his leg, we hugged each other and sobbed.

Spike even had us at “goodbye.” And, in the end, he made our choice easy.