My longest relationship lasted six years. The first four years had been fine, but is it part of the human condition to more sharply remember the years that weren't so good; the two final years?

For those two years, I lived in Wheatridge, Colorado, in a one-story brick ranch. The house had been built for a doctor in 1954 and sat on a corner lot with views of the mountains. A huge maple tree in a corner of the front yard shaded most of the house, while the rest of the yard was shielded with overgrown hedges. The house had glass-block windows and a vaulted living room ceiling of redwood panels. It had an extra room off the kitchen with a separate entrance that had been the doctor's office.

When I lived there, the house was the parsonage for a church. My Partner was its minister.

When I decided to leave, I didn't say anything. I had bigger fish to fry; it was the final semester at law school. "Just a few more weeks," I told myself, "and then, I can look for a place to live."

Maybe he noticed the change. Hell, he must have noticed the change. I suddenly was going about my business, oblivious to his remarks or his moods.

One evening as I was reading in bed, he came into the room.

"I want you out of my bed."

I looked up from my book and I looked at him. "Oh?" I looked at him standing there at the foot of the bed, looking at me.

"Okay," I closed my book. I got up and walked across the hall into the 'guest room', which contained my single bed from my single days.

"Don't you want to know why?"

"No." And I pulled down the sheet, got in and continued reading. He closed the door into our former room.

There was a tapping of nails across the floor in the hall outside. In those days, I had two dogs. Grace peered in, her tail wagging. Picasso, still a puppy but rapidly outgrowing her, looked in from behind.

"Hello Grace," I whispered. "Hello Picasso. You come in here with me." They needed no coaching. They would curl into sleep on the bed or floor around me.

The final semester of law school was no more or less difficult than the others. But after we moved to separate rooms, I dropped all pretense to make things work. My goal was to finish school. If I made no more calls to let him know where I was, there was nothing to hide: I was in the library, studying, and the library opened at 7 and closed at midnight.

Driving down the street to the house in the bright of Colorado night, I would see their little black shapes racing around the yard. The light from the door would cast long shadows into the maple tree, and Grace and Picasso would run in and out of the dark of the hedges. At the metal clink of the gate, they would come galloping out to jump me.

In the room off the kitchen that had been the doctor's office, Grace and Picasso had matching beds, round cushions in bright plaids ordered from a catalog. If we were pretending that's where they were to sleep, I would go with them to see they settled in.

I would feed them and pet them and smell their dog smells. Picasso did not like being alone and he would curl up with Grace on her bed. One night I fell asleep on the cushion along with them.

I woke up when a shadow crossed the door. I sat up, preparing to take what he might give. But when he spoke, it was sad: "You spend more time with the dogs than you do with me," and he walked away.

Maybe he hadn't guessed.

But a few days later, asleep in my room, I woke to sense him standing there again. The dogs were with me and they had stirred. I feigned sleep this time, although my heart began to pump as soon as I felt him sit on the bed. I tried not to flinch when he touched my shoulder.

"When are you coming back to our bed?" He asked me, quietly.

My heart pounded. What should I say? And the seconds passed. But when he began to massage my shoulder, I knew.

"I'm not."

The massage halted. "What?" I could hear him breathing. "Are you going to stay in here?"

I paused again. "Until I move out."

There, I'd said it. And no sooner had I said it than a powerful undertow of sleep began to pull me, like what I imagine a ship like the Titanic must have done on its final slide. I've never experienced a sink like that before -- or since. Was he still there? I realized he hadn't moved. Was he saying anything? He was crying, I think. In the morning he was gone.

And the sun was shining.

About 3am this morning, I woke to hear Grace climbing up the stairs. She was having trouble, struggling on each step, and when she reached the 2d floor, she collapsed in the bedroom.

I picked her up and put her on the bed, where it is comfy with a warm polartek fleece comforter. But the night's sleep was over for me as I monitored her. She let me touch her stomach, so it wasn't an intestinal thing.

I think it's arthritis from the cold or she sprained her rear leg again, like last time.

It was sub-zero temperatures in the morning and so, instead of taking her on our usual walk, I opened the back door and followed her into the fenced back yard. She stumbled off the back porch and collapsed in the back yard.

This time she was in more pain, whining and she did not want me to come near her to pick her up. I was a helpless big baby standing over her, and I started crying.

I don't care what the neighbors think.

Eventually, I was able to carry her back inside where she dropped in the carpeted Dining Room. At least she didn't seem to be in any pain by then, she just wanted to lay there, so I brought in the water dish and placed it next to her.

I was on the phone with the vet as soon as they opened at 8am.

They weren't immediately available but they called me back soon enough. They agreed they think it's a sprained knee like last time and told me to give her aspirin. Or maybe it was the cold, and I could buy some glucosamine chondroitin stuff for dog arthritis...

I know she's over ten years old and she's gotten more and more white hair in her, spreading slowly from her muzzle and her stomach. In the last year, her dark eyes have started taking on a milky haze. I suppose it's all part of life.

I've been very lucky to have a dog like her and I hope we still have some more time.