Nine years ago this month, I traveled to a nursing home in southern California to bid my darling maternal grandmother goodbye. Because she had always been strong, sometimes ornery and was the youngest daughter in a family of 15 children who enjoyed longevity, she shuffled into her 90s like most of her siblings. In the end she did not leave us quickly or dramatically. Her body lived on and on — seemingly out of sync with her mind that aged at a much faster rate.

Some members of our family viewed her dementia as a blessing. At moments it seemed a gift to me as well when she did not realize she no longer lived independently. But some days it seemed cruel and punishing, as she eventually became inconsolable, angry and confused. She was the last member of her family to live on this earth and she missed everyone terribly — especially her older sister Elsie and brothers Loren and Charlie. She looked for them under the cushions in the nursing home’s sitting room and images of them filled her fitful sleep. They became her companions of comfort when those of us, born in later generations, became dementia-created strangers.

The last time I saw her it was a sunny, breezy southern California kind of day. I suspected it might be our last visit. The bougainvillea was in full bloom and cascaded over the gated courtyard where my grandmother often sat in the afternoons. I parked in a spot that allowed easy access to the courtyard and as I put away my keys and stuffed a pair of sunglasses into my purse, I spotted her sitting in a sun-drenched corner. I recall being struck by the halo of white hair spotlighted by the sun and in a move that surprised even me, I flung open the gate and called out, “Grandmother! Grandmother!” just as I did a thousand times when I was young and could see her walking toward my childhood home from my large bedroom window.

I had been told she would most likely look upon me as a stranger, as her mental condition had deteriorated since my last visit. Yet on that day her mental connections were in place. God knew how important his moment would be for us and His gift was recognition. I watched her head turn quickly toward the direction of my voice and as she lifted her tiny frame out of the chair I heard her call out weakly, “Joan, is that you?”

She recognized my voice and looked deeply into my eyes when my tears flowed. I had not wanted to cry in front of her as I longed to be a comforting presence. Yet, I quickly realized she would understand, for you do not live 93 years without producing a reservoir of your own tears. We were two women there in that small courtyard, separated by generations of living, yet facing the same reality: death is a Thief.

In the intervening years the Thief has touched my life numerous times. I have watched relationships die. Dreams die. The elderly and the young die. The Thief is swift and sure. He brings shock and emptiness. And this week, he came again … this time into our family garage as my son and daughter looked on in shock as our elderly golden retriever struggled for a few short minutes to breathe — there on a clean blanket, with me stroking his head and telling him it was okay for him to go.

There is no Hollywood drama to this story. The Thief surprised us with his swiftness and he stole our power to keep Jacob healthy, youthful and alive, but he did not rob us of the honor we felt to sit by a much-loved dog who never once showed any anger or frustration with us. Who understood it was his mission to retrieve friends from their cars and guide them by the wrist to our front door. Who loved nothing better than to sleep by our feet, have his own feet rubbed, and demonstrate contentment — even when his sight and hearing began to fail and his body stiffened with arthritis.

I don’t pretend to know whether Jacob the golden retriever will meet us in heaven, but I do know that the three of us who stayed by his side as he left this life bonded in deep, intangible ways as family members. I do know that a handful of loving friends, who enjoy their pets as we do and who learned of his passing, dropped everything and immediately arrived to help us honor his life with a proper burial.

And it occurred to each one of us that the Thief holds no lasting power over you when you have love. When you have hope. When you see value in life’s experiences — the joyful and the tragic. And when you have assurance that there is life beyond the one lived right here.

Joan Bay Klope is a freelance writer and speaker who makes her home on Whidbey Island. Her award-winning column has run for 12 years in Western Washington newspapers. E-mail comments and speaking requests to faithfulliving@hotmail.com.