A few months ago my friend K. became the proud mama of two Australian Shepherd puppies. They were brother and sister, littermates; he was a hefty little chunkster and she was the feisty little runt that could. Together they were Shadow and Sunny, and they were energetic, lively things; smart as anything and very, very close.

K., who had never been a dog owner before, took her two new furbabies very seriously. Her level of devotion went far beyond walking, feeding, and cuddling. Knowing how intelligent Australian Shepherds are reported to be, she built them an obstacle course and started to train them using Dog Whisperer techniques.

I was lucky enough to be her dog-walking partner. A few times a week, we'd go to the park together. Shadow and Sunny had soft, soft fur around the face and gentle, huge, expressive eyes. K. and I took these walks as opportunities to talk about everything that was right and wrong and searching in our lives, alternately talking about love/diets/social-network-politics and teaching the dogs how to sit, stay, keep the leash loose, and not get too excited by other dogs. These were good walks, fulfilling walks, and as I watched K. learn how to be a great dog mama and I watched her puppies learn how to be extraordinarily kind and disciplined dogs, I felt that everything was right with their future.

On Tuesday, K. took her Sunny and her Shadow in to be spayed/neutered. Turns out, the puppies were both allergic to penicillin and they went into cardiac arrest. Sunny, tiny vigorous fighter, survived. Shadow, her big, gentle, calm brother, died.

I just found out a few minutes ago. K.'s coming over in a bit here. We're taking Sunny to the park for a (slow, gentle) walk. Shadow's going to be a ghost next to that little girl puppy for the rest of her days; she, K., and I are going to miss him.