Fifteen and a half years

I don't know what that is in dog years. Most Shelties, they tell me, live about twelve.
Our Sheltie has always been amazing. Amazingly bright, amazing at language and brilliant at herding both cats and people. Routines like a German schoolteacher, a built-in alarm clock that functioned to the minute.
Any time the girl or I felt sad, there has always been a sable shoulder pressed against our leg; free love, instant perspective. World's best dog, hands down. When she was younger, we walked three to five miles a day, her prance was inspiring. She hasn't been able to make the block in a while.
Whenever she has a bath or her collar gets dirty, and she has to go naked, she gets aggravated; we call her tags her jewelry, and she points her nose and harfs at them until someone gets a clue and puts them back on her neck. When she shakes them to hear them, it's like a princess preening her diamonds.
This week she hadn't felt like breakfast; last night she didn't feel like dinner. She did feel like taking a few treats. But they didn't digest, I could hear the rumbling of her stomach when she got restless in the night; and she did not recognize me. And she couldn't stand up.
The fella came first thing when I called, and carried her in a blanket to the vet. She didn't know what was going on; her first vet visit in fifteen and a half years that she wasn't terrified.
They made me a pawprint to bake, and a lock of her hair.
The fella buried her in her spot under the flowering cherry. I put her jewelry back on after the vet tech had removed it; stupid, but I couldn't bear to think of her without it around her neck.
I don't think I ever want another dog.