Here’s how it went down Wednesday night. You’ll have to forgive me, some details may be a bit askew, but this is basically what happened.

“Hey girls, come into the living room and sit down for a minute,” I said.

Annabelle looked at me suspiciously.

“Is this about Rosy?”

“It is, sweetie.”

She squeezed out a few tears before I could say anything. I explained that Rosy was very, very old, and didn’t feel well anymore. The next day, I was going to take Rosy to the vet and the doctor would give her a shot. The shot wouldn’t hurt, but it would put Rosy to sleep. And she wouldn’t wake up.

More tears from Annabelle. And from me.

Sophie, who hadn’t seemed to be paying attention, stood up and said, “Rosy go to sleep! Cock a doodle doo! The rooster! She wake up! She be all better now!”

I took her on my lap. “No, Sophie,” I said, trying to be a little firm. “Rosy is not going to wake up.”

But she didn’t get it. I decided that was okay. I explained to both girls that Ray and I wanted them to know what was going to happen so they could say their extra-special good byes to Rosy. I tried to explain to Annabelle that dogs can’t make their own decisions — that we have to do what we think is best for them. That it’s our responsibility. And that we didn’t want Rosy to have one bad day.

We pretty much went about the business of the evening after that. I put out some frozen hamburger to thaw for a Last Supper the next morning.

Just before bed, Annabelle approached me in the kitchen and told me she was going to make Rosy a paper flower (see above). And then she told me something else.

“You know what, Mommy? I’m not going to be sad about Rosy dying because she’s had a good long life.”

I smiled and hugged Annabelle, feeling melancholy. I worry that Annabelle has been through too much already, at 8 — a sister with a disability and a heart condition; a beloved grandmother dying far too young. A couple months ago, Annabelle was the one who found Izzy, the ancient Cornish Rex cat, curled up asleep — dead. Even that she handled with grace I find hard to muster at 42.

Annabelle’s got an old soul. Has  her life aged it prematurely? Or would she always have been this way?

Sophie I don’t worry about, not like that. Her soul is so young. She woke up this morning and asked where Rosy was, and while I think she knew what I’d say, I don’t think she had any idea what that meant. Sophie is barreling through life and at times my greatest wish for her, as I’ve written so many times, is that she doesn’t grasp the situation at hand.

Like the other day before school. She spied two girls from her kindergarten class, literally walking arm in arm. One I don’t honestly expect much from. She’s an okay kid, but never has paid much attention to Sophie. The other has been a dear friend to Sophie, seeking her out and taking her hand when it’s time to walk to class, helping her with classroom tasks.

But this particular morning she was with her pal, and when Sophie approached and got right in their faces, singing a song they didn’t recognize, the sweet girl looked exasperated.

“Sophie, why are you doing that?” she asked, then the two turned and walked off, with all the panache of Lindsay Lohan. I winced. I couldn’t blame them — they’re 6, and Sophie was being annoying.

Still, it smarted. (Funny, that word — smarted. Don’tcha think?) Sophie lacks the wherewithall (at this point, anyway) to recognize such a slight. And she lacks the social graces to approach friends the right way. Somewhere in the middle of the two, though, I fear as always that she knows exactly what’s going on, but doesn’t know how to fix it.

I don’t know how to fix it, either. That day, I distracted her til she spotted another friend who was willing to hang with her.

I worry that even if she doesn’t quite grasp them, situations like that will leave an indelible mark on Sophie’s young, impressionable soul.

And I worry that Annabelle’s soul is already starting to harden — just a little.

Mostly, I just worry. They are both my sweet, sweet girls. And unlike my sweet girl Rosy, sometimes there will be nothing I can do to keep them from having a bad day.

This morning I held Rosy the Dog while the vet gave her the euthanasia shot.

Afterward, my mom and I wiped away the tears and did the math. At 14 and a half , Rosy was just about 100 years old in dog years. (I think.) She was not a small dog, though she was a lot smaller this morning than she had been in her prime. So by any standard, it was a long life. And a good one, I think.

Was it really time? Who knows. Ray thought it should have happened a year ago. The vet refused to offer an opinion. Yesterday the groomer came to the house and when she was done trimming Rosy, she sat at the kitchen table and sighed.

“You know….” she began.

“I know,” I said. “Do you think it’s time?”

She didn’t say no. It was a gift. I know it was, but still, a hard one to accept.

After the groomer left, I called and made the appointment. Then I tried to take Rosy’s picture. As an all-black dog (a little white in her later years) she was always difficult to photograph, but this time Rosy made it impossible — she wouldn’t look at the camera. Maybe she knew why I was taking her picture. Maybe she didn’t want anyone to see her looking old.

And so in tribute, instead here’s the painting my mom did of her for Annabelle’s nursery, when the baby was born and the dog went from being a baby to just being a dog.

But still, what a dog.

I opened an eye and observed my younger daughter, standing about an inch from my face, as excited as Christmas morning.

“Let me see your hands,” I said, sitting up in bed. Instantly awake.

“All clean! I use a baggy! I put it in the recycling!”

I wanted to be mad, but instead, my heart grew three sizes. Sophie just wants to help. She likes to pat down the coffee grounds when Ray’s making espresso, and put the wet laundry in the dryer (all supervised closely).

But lately she’s been branching out in scary ways.

It’s hard to blame her for the poo thing. Rosy, our 14-year-old springer spaniel/retriever mix, is now pooping regularly on the kitchen floor. Peeing, too. She also falls constantly. She’s old and lumpy and arthritic and rickety, but damnit, she’s still happy. She’s not in pain (thanks to painkillers) and we haven’t had any bouts of the runs (thanks to the $3 a can vet-approved food I feed her twice a day) but with the weather still well above 100 degrees, I don’t have any place to put her that makes an appropriate toilet.

My friend Robrt dressed his old cat in diapers for years. (True story — when Annabelle was born, he pulled out the leftovers and generously offered them up.) But that isn’t going to work with Rosy.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but Sophie might have pushed me a step closer toward a decision.

I keep waiting for fate to intervene, but that might not happen. Earlier this week I read that the world’s oldest dog just died — at age 21.

I love Rosy, but I don’t think I can clean poo and pee off the kitchen floor for another 7 years. Even Sophie won’t want to do that.

What do I do?! Rosy, as you know from past posts, is long past 14. Old old old, particularly for a big dog. She’s arthritic, covered in lumps and bumps (benign, but still) and I’m pretty sure deafer by the day. She tends to poop wherever she is, which hasn’t been as big a hassle since we introduced the “intestinal distress” diet. She gets pain meds twice a day.

She’s ok. I guess. I can’t ask her.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” people keep telling me.

I’m not so sure. I don’t want Rosy to suffer, I want her to die while she’s still happy, but since it’s looking more and more like I’m in the role of Grim Reaper, how can I kill a happy dog?