I found my wife in the middle of a supermarket aisle; I had bad news. An hour earlier, our veterinarian had called me in the office to say, “The cancer spread all through Sadie, Dave. There’s nothing we could do. I’m so sorry.” My wife was midway through our weekly shopping. In tears as we hugged, I had this odd, parallel thought: Sadie was only a dog. Why am I crying?

In minutes, we left the grocery store. For all I know, the cart is still there, half filled. So is Sadie, in our hearts, at least. And on our walls: we have a beautiful, framed picture of our daughter, a five-year-old blond imp at the time, her arm draped over her best friend, a 90-pound St Bernard. Come have a look any time.

Sadie. To tell you about her, I have to tell you about Vince, my patient (a made-up name, definitely not a made-up person). An ageless 40 I’d guess, a personality bigger than life or my little waiting room. Colourful language, grand plans. A Damon Runyon character, like Hot Horse Herbie, Harry the Horse or Nicely-Nicely Jones. Vince was a composite of all of those, plus one more thing: he had a dog to sell.

On an earlier day, at the end of a visit, he asked, “Wanna see something?” He took me to his car, a jazzy all-white Cadillac. In the back were four playful St. Bernard puppies, tiny fur-balls of instant Prozac. “You pick, doc,” he said. I fell in love with the runt of the litter, but she was too young to take home. “I’ll call you when she’s had her shots and stuff!” he yelled as he backed his Caddy out of the office parking lot.

He was true to his word, sort of. Almost exactly four weeks later we got a call from Vince’s lawyer. Vince, it seems, had landed in a jam, the kind with bars and fingerprinting. Our little runt was fine though, now several weeks old and ready for her new family. “Drop by the house after work,” the lawyer said, and a strange house call ensued. I got a now-much-bigger puppy and her papers, paid the vaccination and other costs, and watched over the next several hours and days as the three of us became a family of four — the fourth one being Sadie.

Her pedigree papers called her Country Squire Belle Star but she was just Sadie to us. (Unfortunately, our neighbour’s mother was also Sadie. Yelling out the front door for our dog often brought a surprised response from the house across the street.) Our Sadie was never one of those over-groomed, snobby breeds like Buddy Holly, the recent winner of the Westminster Dog Show, a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeenis — whatever the heck that is. Not our girl: she was humble, hardworking, playful, kind. Occasionally unkempt and muddy. Always loved.

That first night, I watched as she planted her head firmly on my wife’s lap before my evening office and was still there three hours later. I watched as Sadie dove for the bottom of the stairs when our daughter took a tumble on the second step, landing safely on a furry canine cushion. I watched as Sadie learned to dance, her paws on my shoulders, never complaining, like others in the family, about my lack of rhythm. I watched our family of four become five as our son arrived (a millionaire’s family, my neighbour said — oh yeah?) I watched as they’d all wait for me at the corner of our property when I’d come home from work. I watched as our daughter took in Saturday morning cartoons, uncomplaining Sadie as her back rest or her trusty steed. I watched as a dog — a dog! — worked her way happily, sneakily into our hearts, teaching us a huge lesson about love, and family. And teaching us this: love can be ripped from you in a split second.

Even in a grocery store.