Twelve-year-old Black Lab. She lived at my parents' place, since my apartment is too small for a dog. They didn't tell me she was dying until she had been dead for half an hour.
We're both in the Pacific Northwest, so it gets dark at around 5 PM; despite the darkness, we buried her a few minutes ago to the light of a headlamp.
Still warm, with her dog bed.
EDIT: Sorry, I didn't intend this to read as melodramatic as it does. The staccato of the writing is more due to my tiredness and head cold. I'm very sad, sure, but I'm not devastated. This Glenfiddich isn't amiss, though....
By the way, I've always thought people's reactions to the smell of a wet dog were greatly exaggerated. But the smell of sick wet dog? Good Lord. We're going to have to burn that section of the house.