It was strange to die in private, hidden away like that. It made me think of animals that wandered away to die in peace and alleviated any kind of burden of grief. I thought about watching my dog die. We had waited too long, hoping he would go naturally. Instead, he had taken to hobbling into the garden with his arthritic limbs and lying down in the bushes to wait. But he wasn’t dying. He was suffering. I had told my parents I would take him to be euthanized, because I knew they couldn’t. I couldn’t, either, but it felt like what a strong person was supposed to do. And I was nothing if not perpetually strong, even at twenty-five. I had made it my mission in life to be strong—to be unflappable. So there I was, considering how easily he had jumped into our family car, wondering if maybe it was too soon after all. As we stared at each other in the rearview mirror, I began to wonder if he knew what was happening and if he felt I was his betrayer.

In the clinic, I led him into a small room with a stainless-steel table. I was worrying about how I would get him on the table, but he kept walking toward the door, wanting to leave. I could only think that he was trying to tell me it wasn’t time yet. I petted him, feeling the outline of his bones, marveling at how much body mass he had lost in just the last few years. The vet gave us time together, but more time felt excruciating. Even as I tried to comfort him, I couldn’t help but feel I was complicit in his death, just as I had been complicit in his prolonged suffering. And here, now, I hoped that he knew how much I would miss him. I sobbed while the doctor hovered over my dog, who sat on his haunches on a blanket on the floor as the doctor looked for a vein in his paw.

I kept a hand on him so he knew he wasn’t alone. And then, as the medication took hold, he deflated, folding in on himself. It was as if his spirit escaped him and all that was left was the shell of a body. He slid down to lie on the floor, and the veterinarian gently helped him. His prolonged suffering was what stuck with me most. To me, that was the cruelty of a prolonged death. Bethanny told us to put down our pencils.

“You’ll wrap one of these items up and bring it back here for our next session,” she said, “and give it to someone in this room.”

People were beside themselves as she stood in front of us and smiled.

“It’s okay, I know you can do it.”