We have a dog. Mary is our 9 ½ year old Miniature Schnauzer. She’s an earnest family member and is well cared for. My sons and husband play with Mary, pet and touch her, give her appropriate attention. I on the other hand, do very little to none of that.

I enjoy dogs–believe in the humane treatment of all animals–but I’m not the guest who will pet and talk with your dog for several minutes at the door while you beam and watch. I don’t feign interest well.

Politics and religion always make the list of topics to avoid in conversation unless you enjoy navigating minefields, or are skilled at diplomacy and do not offend easily. Two topics that I add to that list are parenting…and pets. People have strong opinions about how to approach caring for and raising our precious dependents, both the human and hairy variety.

I ensure Mary has food and fresh water, take her to the groomer and the veterinarian, purchase her annual Halloween costume (or beg help from my friend with seamstress skills and the patience to do fittings with a dog), and let her follow me around. She stares at me–seems to pine. That little dog loves me, and it’s an undeserved love. I don’t mistreat Mary, I’m just not as into her as she is me.

The other evening while reading “The Costco Connection” magazine, I learned that Costco (One of my favorite stores, especially the Lehi location on Sundays. Heaven.) sells pet urns. “Farewell to Fido” was the article that caught my eye.

“Look at this,” I said to my family who were happily playing a game on the floor, the dog lying near them but staring at me. “Maybe we should get this for Mary.” Mary’s ears and eyebrows rose at the mention of her name.

I showed them the article and the photos of petite urns, including one small memory box with a Miniature Schnauzer shellacked on top. “That’s a sad thought, Mom,” said the boys. “Poor, Mary,” said my husband, Chris.

“I wasn’t implying I’m ready to bid farewell to Mary,” I slightly fibbed.

Nine years ago, a very young Mary ate some string resulting in an intestinal obstruction and she almost died. Several procedures and surgeries, a hospital transfer, and a gazillion dollars later, she returned home with 50 stomach staples, her life, and an undying devotion for our family. And who was championing the “Save Mary!” cause? Me. Of course, Chris also felt compassion for our suffering pet. And had we known that the path to save her would have been so long and expensive, we might have bid farewell to Mary earlier. But we didn’t. We had a credit card, I was hormonal, our young sons cried, and my sweet husband buckled. Mary lives!

The reality is, Mary will probably still be staring at me 10 years from now. She’ll either be one of the oldest documented living Miniature Schnauzers (complete with dialysis appointments that I will likely manage), or she’ll be displayed as the hat Chris swears she’ll become after she passes. He wants something to show for that gazillion dollars.

Chrisy Ross is the author of To Mormons, with Love: A Little Something from the New Girl in Utah. She lives in Alpine with her husband and three sons, and blogs at ChrisyRoss.com.