“Get out the way,” said Vern to the others. “Out the way.” The dog’s body lay limp in Vern’s arms, lanky limbs swaying with each step.

Paul felt his chest tighten. He’d known a moment like this was coming—for a long time, he’d known. But the old girl just kept on living and defying the odds of her species.

He pushed back tears. He touched Louisville’s face. The old girl was panting. Her tongue was out of her mouth. Her chest moved in rapid rhythm.

“What happened?” asked Paul.

“Found her behind the tractor, panting. She didn’t look right. Reckon she needs water.”

This was beyond the remedy of water. Paul touched the soft fur between Louisville’s eyes. Her old, almond-colored eyes were tired. He could see weariness in them.

Vern laid the animal down before the old man who had bred and raised her. Who remembered the September morning when her mother had deposited her into this world. Who remembered when she first learned to use her throaty voice. She’d been born during the height of happiness. Long before the hard times ever hit the world. And she had lived longer than any dog Paul had ever known.

She opened her eyes to look at Paul. He stroked her snout and said, “Oh, honey.”

He closed his eyes and remembered the day he held the black-and-tan puppy in his arms. He remembered how this animal used to sleep on the pillow beside his head at night when she was still growing into herself. He remembered the moments when she peed on him. The times he would bury his face into the soft skin of her neck. He remembered how he used to hold her in his lap, even when she was a full-grown animal who believed she was a puppy.

Louisville rested her head against Paul. Paul sat beside her and lifted her body into his lap. Louisville curled her long, lanky body into a ball and breathed like a freighter.

A man wandered in from the field and said, “Could be tobacco poisoning? I seen a dog eat tobacco before.”

“No,” said Paul. “She’s too smart to eat that stuff.”

“She’s a dog,” the man said with a chuckle. “Dogs do all sortsa stupid things.”

“Not her,” Paul said.

Pete came running toward Paul with his hat in his hands. “What’s happening, Paul?”

“She’s sick,” Paul said in a half whisper.

Vern said, “She’s a tough old girl. She be alright.”

Louisville coughed, then panted again. She leaned her head into Paul and labored for air.

“Take her into the woods,” said another man. “That’s what I’d do with an old dog like her. Fast and easy.”

“No, sir,” said Paul with a smile. “This is my girlfriend. I’d never do something like that to my best girl.”

“Just how we did things on the farm,” said the man.