Max's grave It turns out that we had very little time—precious little time—left, and a few minutes past midnight, Max, who had been lying peacefully on the basement rug next to us, gave off four or five sharp breaths, shuddered a bit, then stopped, his big heart and lungs quiet, any pain that he might have been in, physical and mental, gone. The slow decline that started a year ago and increased in tempo over the summer and early autumn was over, and after wrapping our old friend in a red-and-black flannel shirt he had claimed as a bed, I went outside after the sun had come up to attempt to dig a proper grave. Given the arthritic state of my wrists, I wasn't even sure if this was possible, but, because I was doing it for Max, I managed. About 12 hours after he'd left this life, my wife and I gave Max one last hug, laid him down gently in his final resting place by a large boulder he loved to perch on—this came to be known as the "guard rock"—and committed him to the care of the natural world. We planted a new Hydrangea atop his grave, and we watered the plant with our tears.