O n Tuesday, July 29th at 1:00 am, our Yellow Labrador Retriever, Dylan, died. Three weeks earlier he'd been diagnosed with advanced chronic kindey failure, with a caveat from his doctors, even after interminable tests and examinations, that it was only probable - 95% - that his disease was chronic rather than acute. Only acute kidney failure can be cured. It was that 5% chance that had helped me and my husband, Frank, make the decision, against all medical advice, to try everything possible to save him. There were only two possibilities; the first, and least invasive was diuresis, a process of flushing out the kidneys with massive amounts of water delivered through an IV, in the hope that the kidneys will jump start and begin to function again. After four days when it was clear that Dylan wasn't responding to the treatment, I asked the doctor if we could try dialysis. It meant transferring him to a hospital in New York City, one of only five in the country equipped to do dialysis. Fortunately, we live in northern New Jersey, a stone's throw from the city. Unfortunately, these hospitals don't like to treat dogs with a poor prognosis. I suppose that, like all of us, doctors don't like to fail, and it was probable, 95% probable, that dialysis wouldn't work. They finally agreed to take him but only after I threw a fit and told the doctor, pretty rudely, to stop thinking about facts and to start thinking about hope. I knew she was right to recommend against dialysis. I knew it and I didn't care.