I made an appointment at the clinic for the next day. Blanca had a very difficult night; she was agitated, kept getting up to walk around, and couldn't sleep. When I came home from work, to take her to the clinic, she had become very weak, in just a few hours. By the time we made it to the clinic, Blanca could barely stand. The trip to the vet resulted in x-rays, an ultrasound, and a transfusion. The tests showed that she had cancer again, this time internal, involving her liver and spleen. She had hemorrhaged as well, and was very anemic. I'm sure that was the cause of her restlessness the night before. The transfusion was intended to keep her alive long enough for me to decide what to do.

The cancer was operable, although there was a significant chance that she would die on the table, considering her weakened state. And the best guess was that the cancer would return within a few months. It took me a long time to accept what I already knew, deep down: it was time let my old friend and companion go.
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Blanca spent her last couple of days sleeping outside in the springtime sun. I couldn't do much for her, besides give her what little water that she was able to drink. Fortunately for both of us, she didn't have to endure very long. Dawn stopped by to say goodbye, and Dave brought Garrett and Ian over. We had visited the clinic on Tuesday or Wednesday, I've forgotten which; by Friday evening, it was clear that only suffering was left. I spent that last night on the floor beside her, with my arm around her. That's not what Blanca would have chosen; remember that she didn't like to be too close unless there was some rival in the area. But that night, it was only the two of us, as it had been so many times. I told her as many stories as I could remember of our life together, to remind her of the places we'd been, of the adventures we'd shared, of the dogs and people we'd known. And I prayed my thanks for having a big black dog named Blanca in my life.
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Saturday morning I called our vet, and asked him to make a housecall. He arranged to come by shortly after noon. Blanca had barely moved since I carried her inside the previous evening; she was curled up on her bed, facing the wall. Shortly before the vet was due to arrive, I went upstairs to wash my face, to prepare myself. I came back down the stairs, turned the corner, and saw Blanca. She was still on her bed, but had used her last bit of strength to turn around, so she could see me.
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Blanca died April 1st, 2006. In the year since that day, I've had to make do with memories, a few snapshots, and a box that I can never open. There was nothing profound or even terribly special in our story- afterall, it's just the story of a dog and her boy- but maybe someone somewhere will read it, and understand how fortunate we were so long ago to have a dog wander in out of the darkness to share a campfire with us.
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I miss you, Blanca. Good dog!