AMERICUS — President Reagan spoke about the “long good bye” when he announced to the world the beginning of his battle with Alzheimer’s disease. For many of us it helped in our understanding of grieving before the loss ... preparing for the inevitable before it actually occurs.

I am preparing for such a loss: My little dog Abbey is on her “last leg” and my heart is aching.

Abbey’s origins are veiled in mystery. My guess is that she was born in a puppy mill. She was shipped to a national pet store chain and sold to the first person who came up with $500. She is no show dog. Her legs are too short and her body is too long. Besides, she has 23 nipples — probably a big disqualifier at the New York Kennel Club.

Her first owners were nice enough. Young, and upwardly mobile, this couple didn’t need a dog. They both worked two jobs and didn’t even have time for the sweet baby daughter that was being raised by a nanny. Abbey was “crate trained” to the point that she spent about 18 hours a day in her small quarters. She was a mess and to this day she hates being put in a crate.

I had wanted a Jack Russell terrier. My boys were in Scouts and the plan was for a small, scrappy dog we could take camping. I got a Bichon Frise instead. Not what I wanted, but oh, what a good dog! We answered the couple’s ad, paid way too much for her and rescued her from the crate that rainy night. We brought her home to three active children and a lot of love. There is no question that she has given us much more than we could have ever given to her in return.

When she was younger, Abbey “took a husband.” Buddy Joy, it turned out, was a two-timing cad who was already involved with Lucy Baggarly when Abbey came into his life. Of course, Abbey didn’t know that, or she never would have fooled with Buddy. When it came time to consummate the relationship, I took Abbey to South Atlanta for a little visit with Buddy.

Neither party seemed interested, but after about a week I got the phone call that Abbey and Buddy were, indeed, “with puppy” and that I could come get my little girl dog. “I’m pretty sure they bred,” I was told. “Abbey has a big grin on her face and Buddy has been walking around the house all day smoking a cigarette!”

Of course, the Millers, the Joys and the Baggarlys had a great time laughing about the (now deceased) philandering Buddy, and Abbey, the tramp he created. Although Abbey was “the other woman” the happy couple produced two beautiful litters and made seven other families very happy. Oh, I know about the irresponsibility of home breeding, and I would not do it again, but at the time we felt it was a great way to share the love of our wonderful little dog. It also helped us make the house payment on a couple of occasions.

Surprisingly, I have never written much about Abbey in this column. Never the show horse, she prefers a quieter role in life. She has never been much of an “in your face” presence in our house. Zippy, our flea market Chihuahua has been the alpha dog since my mother’s death some years ago. Zippy flies about the house like a little earthbound bat. She seems to have built-in radar. Abbey has never been much of a match for Zippy’s agility and speed, and certainly not her barking. Most of her life Abbey has just been a delightful little dog with a sort of laid back personality and those beautiful coal black eyes.

And so, for the past 14 or so years, she has graced us with her presence and warmed our bed, our laps and our hearts. She has been a perfect companion for home and travel and she makes everyone feel welcome in our home. Even people who are not dog lovers take to Abbey almost instantly. She has lived a life filled with love.

As sweet as she remains, in truth, age is taking its toll. She is virtually blind and almost totally deaf. Her skin (which has always been problematic) is thin and her allergies are worse. She seems confused and frightened.

This week, something has triggered a skin lesion that she just can’t leave alone. Whether it was the bite of a snake or a spider or perhaps a feral wombat, we’ll likely never know. She is swollen and bloody and is literally chewing herself to death. Heavy antibiotics and a chew collar are likely to help and she may well get through this crisis. The reality is that the quality of her life is declining and her time on this earth is likely drawing to a close.

In the time we have left, I’m determined to make things easier and more pleasant for her. I’m also determined that a protracted life of suffering is not in my plans for her.

In my den hangs an oil painting of a younger and friskier Abbey. Commissioned as a gift for my wife on our 20th anniversary, it shows Abbey as I’d like to remember her. She is freshly groomed, her eyes are bright, her tongue is pink and, most importantly, she has that unmistakable look of contentment and happiness.

Forgive me, this Sunday, if I’ve strayed from my usual pathway. There is nothing funny about losing a beloved pet. I just wanted to take a moment to pay tribute to a sweet little dog while I have the chance … and while I can still talk about it.

Good dog, Abbey! Good dog.

Bioce E. “Stick” Miller, an award winning columnist, lives and works in Americus