A couple of weeks ago, I found myself facing something no pet owner ever wants to face.

I’d had an evening class and then grocery shopped on the way home, so I didn’t get in until after 9:30. The dogs, as always, charged out to greet me, stuck their big noses in the grocery sacks to see what I’d bought, and then headed into the back yard. My male cat, Benton, came slinking by, winding his way around chair and table legs and rubbing the side of his face against the cabinets.

My female cat, Brie, however, was not in the middle of the fray.

At first, this didn’t strike me as particularly odd. She hadn’t been well for the past few months, and I’d been working with the vet to figure out why she’d been losing so much weight. Her most recent blood work results, which had come in only two days before, were again normal, but her energy was down, and sometimes she just stayed in the basement or on the sofa when I came home.

But after I’d puttered around, putting away groceries and checking the mail, I realized I was having those maternal “something’s wrong” feelings and began looking for her.

Her usual basement spots were empty. I called her name and thought that I heard something but couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

As I turned to go back upstairs, I threw one final glance toward the litter boxes and saw something large and dark in one of them.

It was my Brie, collapsed from a seizure or stroke, foaming slightly at the mouth, laboring for breath. I had no way of knowing how long she’d been there.

Within minutes, the vet on call that night confirmed what I already knew: each breath, coming 10 to 20 seconds apart, meant she was already dying and that the end was very near. Likely, he said, she wouldn’t last for the trip to the office to put her down.

All I could do at that point was be there with her until the end.

I wiped the litter from her face with a damp cloth and crawled into bed, cradling her in my arms — her favorite place.

I talked to her and stroked her, told her what a good girl she’d been and how much I loved her. Her breaths came more and more slowly, and finally I felt a twitch in one back leg, and then in a front one, and then she was gone.

I held up until it was all over. After that, the tears came freely.

It was all I had to give her at the end. I hope it was enough, and that she wasn’t afraid.

Brie’s ashes now sit waiting with those of other past pets. We will all be buried together, and I hope that someone will plant a young tree over us and let us all nourish it.

In the meantime, however, I had another job to do.

Although I knew that no one could ever replace Brie, I also knew I had a spot in the house that someone else would like to fill.

And so a little more than a week later, I found myself back at the Lawrence Humane Society, asking, “Who’s been here the longest?”

Our shelter is filled with wonderful, loving cats of all ages, wanting desperately to go to homes of their own, with warm sunny windows and legs to brush past and fingers that will tickle their ears. They’re two and three to a kennel, showing off their charms to every visitor who walks by.

One thing that hasn’t changed since I’d brought Brie home nine years ago — and it’s the same in shelters everywhere — is that cats and dogs with black fur are usually the last to be adopted. Many people like lighter colors, or pets with spots or unusual markings. To help counter that, our shelter offers a “two for one” adoption of black animals several times a year.

The truth, of course, is that black-furred animals are every bit as loving and deserving as their differently colored cousins. Still, our shelter has an abundance of black dogs and especially cats, a few of whom have been there for nearly a year.

My attention turned to one particular black short-haired female who was listed as 9 years old. That, along with her color, I knew, would be two strikes against her.

Long story short? The former “Clarissa,” now named “Cassie,” marched into my home that weekend, gave each dog a warning whap on the nose (she’s declawed–no harm, no foul) and perched herself in a south-facing window to catch some rays. I’ve also learned that she’s a little overeager to head-butt me in the nose when she wants attention, and she prefers to sleep on my chest.

I think Brie would have liked her.

— Sue Novak is a board member of the Lawrence Humane Society.