Requiem for a Princess

The Stephens family hadn't always been dog people.  In fact, Lauren and I were more the "can you put the dog in the other room?" kind of kids - because we were mildly allergic, and because we were kind of wusses.  When our parents brought Killian home, this changed overnight.  We fell in love with her immediately, and quickly became "dog people" in the broader sense.  What I had once considered onerous tasks like walking her in the rain, or cleaning up her messes - things I told myself I would not deign to do upon her first arrival - became simple favors done out of love for a fellow family member.  I remember a marked shift in the way Chris Fleming's golden retriever, Max, greeted me after I had spent a month or two rolling around the floor with Killian: instead of being leered at as an intrusive outsider, I was tackled by a familiar old friend.  Killian's budding personality both infected and educated us - we were eager to learn what she was going to learn next.  Everyone who visited and had her jump up into their lap saw why we were smitten.
Killian was (at least ostensibly) brought in to keep my brother Eric company while his older siblings were away at school, and Dad was wary of how the "dog thing" would play out - would she be properly trained?  Mom saw to that.  Would she be walked and fed and cared for each day?  Mom set the routine, and everyone eventually climbed on board.  Somewhere along the line, however, Killian developed a unique kinship with her patriarch, my Dad, one that benefited both of them: she became a second daughter for him to dote upon.  With a once-bustling nest slowly emptying, Killian became the perfect activity (and, just as importantly, inactivity) partner: she would vigilantly "guard" the backyard from rogue wildlife (her utter inability to scare even the smallest rodent notwithstanding) as he swam or tended his backyard landscape; she would silently critique or endorse his latest canine culinary offering; he would come to oversee her care for her ailments, which would eventually include arthritis and (if you believe it, which I'm not sure if I do) anxiety. Far from Felix and Oscar, they simply became another happy case of dog-owner and dog.
There was a time when it seemed dubious to me that the personalities of dogs and their owners are reflections of one another; now I'm certain that Killian was as much a Stephens as any of the rest of us. Anyone who witnessed her race to individually greet each person who walked through the door knew she was a social butterfly, like us; anyone who saw her drop her bone on the tile to spring free the last morsel of cheese saw that she was a problem solver (not to mention an epicurean), like us; anyone who felt her nudge and bark her way into your farewell hug couldn't deny that she was endlessly affectionate, just like us. It's fitting that in her final days, Dad found himself jumping through hoops for her that a decade prior he might have called insane: sparing no expense for the finest veterinary care he could find; spending nights by her side in hopes that she might ask for a drink; chopping up the finest meats and cheeses to make her finals meals unforgettable (OK - he'd done that one for years).  Never one to perform many tricks, it was her last and finest as a Stephens: the salesman had been sold.
Killian survived a scary case of internal bleeding caused by the tumors that were then discovered all over her body.  She bounced back and was able to spend her last days in relative comfort and happiness with her family, her tail wagging at her adoring visitors to the very end.  She will be missed and never forgotten.