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I sit in my den, barely able to concentrate on the work I must do, the stories I must write, in preparation for a week's vacation. The back door is open; the only sounds are of clicking computer keys, the snore of the big dog Sophie in the adjoining kitchen, the shrill call of a bird or a jarfly outside.

But what draws my eye to the back yard, what has me fidgeting and ill at ease, is Duchess, the black Lab/hound dog mix, sleeping in the nest she hollowed out about halfway down the hill between her doghouse and the patio. She raises her head occasionally and glances toward the door, then wearily puts it down again and dozes until some other sound or motion from the direction of the house again catches her attention.

The death watch has begun.

Duchess is now 15 years old and has been in good health until a couple of years ago when she had some very large tumors removed from her chest and belly. The vet warned my son then that the tumors would probably come back. We really didn't think Duchess would survive the surgery, but she came through better than we could have hoped. She continued doing well, until the past few weeks. She's been sleeping more and more. She doesn't bark when the opening garage door announces I'm home from work. She has more tumors on her legs, her underside. She's losing weight even though she eats her food. Her eyes are no longer full of life and vigor, and when the other dogs come outside, she doesn't acknowledge them.

I look at her now and see the grizzled muzzle and the bony hips and the eyes that are almost blank, and I can't help but think of the chubby black puppies she and her sister, Belle, were when we got them almost 15 years ago to the day. Their coats were shiny black, Belle more like a Lab in appearance, Duchess more like a hound in body shape. These mischievous pups soon became part of the family and eventually it was like they had always been here.

Belle passed away about five years ago. She began having seizures, and nothing the vet did made a difference. She became so frail that one day, when I called her for supper, she couldn't stand. It was time for that last, long ride, the final act of kindness that broke our hearts yet had to be done, for her sake.

Duchess is standing up now, looking around like she doesn't understand why she got up in the first place. She does that sometimes, but only for a moment before she returns to her cool, earthen bed. I think I'll fix her some venison for supper tonight as a treat. For all these years, she's been a good dog -- full of mischief at times, yet a faithful guardian of her people. It's only right that her people make her last days comfortable with treats and praise and pats on her head.

It won't be long now until her time comes. When it does, I want her to remember those treats and caresses, and the sound of "good dog" in her ears.

That's what I want to remember, too.

Linda Albert is Women's Times editor and a staff writer for The Daily Times. Her column runs every Sunday in the Women's Times section. You may contact her at 981-1168 or e-mail linda.albert@thedailytimes.com.