As a veterinarian providing euthanasia at home, my heart is often heavy with the weight of the goodbyes. Writing even a little something helps in some way. We met in the bathroom.  You weren’t able to stand and you didn’t even lift your head or wag your tail.  That’s how I knew.  A lab almost always musters a wag, or a lift of the head.  Your dad held your paw and your grandmom spoke tender words to you. The first paw I’d seen held.  So tender, it broke my heart. We met on your couch.  Your nose was dry with crusts of discharge.  Not because no one cared, their love for you was wide and deep, but they couldn’t clean you without hurting you.  Your belly was swollen with the sickness that was taking you away.  Your eyes met mine and you told me you knew it was time. We met on your kitchen counter.  The sunlight was streaming in through the window and you curled up there, purring to say hello, purring through the fluid that filled your belly, your lungs, your skin. We met on your living room floor.  Your paw was bandaged…