I got my dog when I was about ten years old. We found her as a little runaway, she was already house trained. She was a pardi poodle (mostly) with some other stuff mixed in. We soon found out why she was a runaway: she ALWAYS wanted to escape the yard! She would dig, run for open doors, whatever it took to get out and explore the neighborhood. We had a run down fence in several spots and realized one time she was climbing onto our AC and jumping through a hole in the fence way off of the ground to the neighbor's yard where she could dig out. She was a good sport once we found her, she'd run up to the car, tongue lolling out, sometimes with animal poop all over her back (lol). The running nature eventually passed out of her almost entirely and she became trustworthy enough to hang out in the front yard without a leash. She was a fantastic dog, always good for a laugh, although she had sour moods sometimes. (Her sighs when someone would sit in a chair next to her while she was resting were legendary.) I remember best how on Saturday mornings when I would sleep in with my door shut sometimes it would be getting late and my family would open up the door. She was an alarm clock, bounding in and licking me until I would get out of bed. Eventually she got sick. We didn't know what it was. She stayed at the vets for a little while, and when it looked bad, I remember that visit. I held her, sick and shaking and weak, in my lap. I remember that last little lick on my cheek, feeble and tremulous, as well as I remember any feeling in this life. I went home and cried for a long time. She died that night. I can't write that without fighting back the tears, even though it was years ago. I feel your pain. It will get better... your dog had a life well lived. Most of them with good owners do.