R.I.P.

We knew this day would come. We knew you could not last forever. But it still pains us, knowing that this is most likely the end. We can see in that smoke pouring from the crankcase that you are probably destined for the great parking lot in the sky. You joined the family a few months before I was born, five years ago this month. Then, you were a shiny, hard-charging Buick. You were in the prime of life, having just ticked over 40,000 miles on the odometer. Your combination of full-size comfort and respectable fuel economy served us well over the years. We went on countless trips together -- to the dog park, the mosque, PetSmart. You took us to Chicago in style; it was your kind of town. You helped us see New Orleans before the floods came. You took us to Colorado twice, scaling the highest heights of Rocky Mountain National Park. If anything, your mighty V6 seemed to grow stronger in the thin mountain air. Your responsive brakes never overheated.

But now, after more than 100,000 miles together, it seems that you are able to run no more. I had a bad feeling when I saw that big cloud of smoke in the rearview mirror. It was your lifeforce, quickly draining away. Though you struggled mightily, your cylinders missing and your "check engine" light flashing, you brought me home safely one last time, reaching that familiar oil stain on the driveway. If it is truly God's will that this is the end, then I wish you well, Buick. Go onward to that great parking lot in the sky. And know that with that ever-present layer of pug fur on the passenger seat, you take a piece of me along with you.