I have dreaded having to write this, wondering how I could find the words without weeping.

It turns out I can’t.

My darling Daisy, the best dog to ever grace this world, died June 4.

She cheerfully lived a little more than seven years with me and my family, bringing a boundless love and happiness to a world that seemed increasingly troubled. Daisy was morning’s sunshine and bedtime’s footwarmer. She was comfort and clarity, a being that made the craziest day easier to bear as she gave you one of her all-knowing looks and a sympathetic tail wag.

As I have tried to get the garden planted these past few weeks – no easy task when one’s heart is not quite in it – I have had a lot of time to think about my Daisy dog.

She was a nearly silent presence, only her tags on her collar making a soft jingle and her toenails clicking on bare floor.

Sometimes I would wake in the morning to find her sitting beside my bed staring at me, then her tail would wag, her meaning clear: Move your legs so I can get on the bed.

I always did.

She rarely barked – sometimes months would pass between woofs – and when one did erupt, it usually startled her.

Some days she could be entirely goofy, as if to remind me I needed to laugh really hard. It often would start with Daisy giving me a sloppy kiss as if to dare me to smile and me protesting in silliness until she would roll on the bed, her teeth bared into a grin, kicking her legs and wagging her tail and wiggling her entire body.

She would rumble out a sound of pure contentment, ending her jolly good time with her “frog dog” position: legs stretched out straight behind her.

Daisy danced. I always said she’d gone all “floofy,” her ears crinkled back, her mouth open into a Daisy grin and her front feet bouncing her up and down (nothing as undignified as standing on her back feet, however). It was her dance of joy. Most weeks it was reserved for the folks at the veterinarian’s office, and especially for her vet, Dr. Stephanie Monk. No matter how much poking and prodding Daisy experienced over the 15 months she lived with lymphoma, she still did her “floofy” dance when she was feeling OK.

Daisy loved to ride anywhere, any way. I simply had to touch my car keys and she’d come hotfooting it from wherever she’d been and stand waiting to go. She particularly loved drive-thrus. At the bank, she always got a biscuit or two or three. She’d sit at her most attentive, ears forward, body poker-straight and those eyes unwavering from the teller until a biscuit was sent out. And she was relentless with me until I had given her all that had been sent through the drawer.

Daisy always went camping with my parents and sister in the motor home, claiming the couch as her own before the wheels ever hit the pavement. She ended up traveling to Prince Edward Island more times than I’ve been (I usually stayed home to tend the cats and garden, usually in that order). Along the way, she made new conquests and compelled people to stop and adore her. My sister loves to tell the story of how a fellow with dreadlocks playing the drums spotted Daisy on a walk at a New Brunswick rest stop; he saw Daisy, came running across the parking lot, dropped to his knees and started to give her a full body massage.

Daisy, of course, took it all in stride.

My delicate flower also loved snow and hated rain. Rainy days meant she would refuse to step foot into the yard unless nature compelled her. If you left her alone, you would find her plastered against the side of the house under the eaves looking like the most pitiful waif in the land.

Let it snow, however, and she couldn’t wait to get out. This past winter was a gift for our girl, if only because she had so much fun plowing around the backyard, eating “snow cones” and rolling in the drifts. Only cold feet prompted her return to the house.

Squirrels were Daisy’s torment. Watching her stalk a squirrel across the yard was always hilarious. Her body would practically quiver as she approached her target. As soon as the squirrel zipped up a tree, her gaze would swing away and her body seemingly shrugged as if to say, “Squirrel? What squirrel?”

Daisy loved to snuggle on my bed with me while I was writing my column or watching a DVD. I simply had to reach out my left hand and stroke her back or belly. She’d usually roll onto her side and then kick out that back leg, which always made her look like a princess reclining amongst the cushions.

More often than not, Daisy would spend part of her day bathing. Like a cat. First one foot then another, at times enjoying it so much that a huge wet spot would grace whichever bed she was using. It usually meant one of us would be sleeping with a leg, foot or arm on a cold, wet sheet.

If we took the trouble to point this out to her, we always got a wag in return that reeked of a saucy “you’re welcome.”

The wag was still there at the end. When I found out on that Wednesday that her organs were shutting down, I made the decision to put her to sleep. We spent the next few hours saying goodbye to all the people who mattered most, with Daisy giving them each a little wag when they arrived to see her. It wasn’t until after everyone left that she lifted her head to look at me and then gave me the sweetest wag.

Her last great gift.

Video, more pictures and a slideshow of Daisy romping in the last major snowstorm in March are posted on my blog at www.janinepineo.com.

jpineo@bangordailynews.net