Not many dogs wander freely through our neighborhood, so when we found the black terrier standing in the middle of the street, shaking with fear, we figured she was lost. We never thought she was being discarded.

Two steps in her direction, though, and the dog fled. Second born, aka Jo, decided to follow and wound up talking to the dog’s owner, who lives at the other end of our street. Turns out the owner wanted to get rid of the dog. She handed Jo a leash and said, “Take her for a walk and you don’t have to come back.”

Jo brought the terrier home.

Greetings always make a dog happy, and it was no different in our front yard as Jo and I petted the terrier, which smelled from not having had a bath anytime recently. It kept wanting to lick my face.

But we knew this was fleeting, even as we devised arguments to justify adopting the dog.

We had owned a dog for a dozen years — and I owned dogs in my youth — but this was not the time for a new pet. Everyone who would have to care for the dog was busier than ever, and we had an old deaf cat whose dementia would go off the chart if he suddenly had to deal with a strange, new dog.

That’s what I told myself, but my apprehension went deeper.

The trouble with pets is they die. And it’s how mine have died that’s so haunting: looking me in the eye with trust and love as the blackness falls upon them. I’d been there twice already.

When I had to put down Bill, a dog I found when I was 18, my only comfort was that I could be there, my hand on his head, when the end arrived. I told myself, never again would I own a dog. But there I was, a half a lifetime later, saying goodbye to Daisy, our family dog. I brought a blanket that smelled of home, a trick to make her think it was all OK.

Daisy, a poi dog we got from the Hawaiian Humane Society, was a true companion. Friendly. Loyal. Eager to please.

When Mrs. G. worked from home, Daisy followed her from room to room every day, all day. When I took Daisy for a walk, she would shake with excitement the moment I grabbed the leash. She often slept at the foot of Jo’s bed and, when Jo went to sleep, would pad down the hallway and jump up with me and Mrs. G.

That crazy, happy dog would spin joyful circles every time someone walked through the front door. When you left, she just stood there.

Daisy was like all dogs. She never asked for much. She just wanted to be loved, and if you could give her that, you had a friend for life.

And Jo and I could see that in the terrier’s eyes.

The owner had said she had other dogs and the terrier was her least favorite, that she always got loose and ran away. Maybe she would sell the terrier on Craigslist, the woman told Jo.

We can’t keep the terrier, I told my daughter. Take her back.

We can’t keep you, I told the terrier as it looked me in the eyes, convulsing like a happy dog ready for a walk, a dog ready to be a friend, a dog that deserved a bit of love, a home.

As Jo walked the terrier up the street, it got loose and bolted.

Ever since, I’ve wondered what became of it. But I can tell you one thing I didn’t know before: There are worse things you can do to a pet than put it down.

Reach Mike Gordon at 529-4803 or email mgordon@staradvertiser.com.