TAKING A VISIT TO THAT LAST DOG PARK.

Byline: MARIEL GARZA

Tucked into the tony hills of Calabasas is a place where no one with a pet wants to end up. It's pretty enough, with the rolling green hills surrounding trimmed lawns and trees lush with leaves after weeks of rain. But look closely and among the greenery are small plaques with heartbreaking simple notations to beloved dogs, cats and other animal companions:

``Crissie, 1966-1976'' says one, with a picture of a German shepherd. Nearly 30 years later, somebody still misses Crissie enough to make sure there are plastic flowers in a tiny vase.

I ended up in this pet cemetery on a dreary, drippy day because my dog is dying. The vets haven't said this outright, but, when the lemon-size tumor erupted from Lucky's head last week, it became clear the end was probably nigh.

My sweet-faced, 7-year-old black Lab suddenly became ill two weeks ago. The vet found a small tumor on his back leg and a suspicious dark mass on a chest X-ray. A few days later, his head swelled up with another tumor. The vet didn't speculate on prognosis, but his somber tone and sad face told me he'd seen this before and it wasn't good.

Some people take to their beds upon receiving bad news, cry it out and then get on with their lives. Others hold out boundless hope, believing that they will be the one in a million. Some, like me, must keep busy.

I decided to deal with the news by planning Lucky's funeral. It's morbid, yes, but it kept my mind from worrying about the biopsy results. Besides, if it turns out to be benign, at least I will be prepared for when it really happens.

This is my first dog, and I naively thought that, when it came time, I would dig a hole in the back yard, drop in my beloved dog and say some words. Maybe I would plant some of that fountain grass he's always eating and mark the spot with a plaque: ``Lucky. You weren't, but I sure was.''

That's what people always seem to do on TV. Problem is, I live in Los Angeles, where it is against the law to bury your pet under your rose bush. Not just frowned upon, but illegal. The laws are probably designed for sanitary reasons. Who wants to discover they live next door to an informal cemetery?

In case I was thinking about breaking the law anyway - who would know if I secretly planted my pet? - animal experts recommended I do it right: six feet under.

I decided to be a good citizen, so I called the Animal Service Department, should the end not come at the vet's office. But first, I went in the back bedroom and shut the door. Researchers recently found that dogs understand about 200 words. I don't know which 200 words Lucky knows other than ``walk,'' ``sit'' and ``stop biting the kitty,'' but I didn't want to take chances he might overhear.

Animal Services referred me to the Bureau of Sanitation. Yes, the trash collectors. They will pick up your dead pet 24 hours a day and do God knows what with it, all for free. ``They, you know, cremate it or something,'' the customer service representative at Bureau of Sanitation helpfully offered.

Or something.

I know my taxes are helping to pay for this service, but I just don't think I could surrender Lucky to the trash men. There's got to be other options.

There are, as it turns out, quite a few options. A number of businesses offer various ``aftercare'' options, from private burial in silk-lined caskets in the few animal cemeteries around Southern California to various levels of cremations - individual, private or top priority. There are urns of all sizes, some with picture frames. Others look like reproductions from the Ming dynasty vase. Some businesses provide bereavement services for those who cannot let go of Fido or Fluffy through group or individual therapy.

That's how I ended up in Calabasas, pondering options, pricing urns for the ``cremains'' and wandering the grounds that include pets of regular people as well as celebrities. Somewhere around there, Hopalong Cassidy's horse Topper has been resting in peace for some decades.

In the end, I find I can't make up my mind. When the time comes, I will decide what to do. Maybe I'll want to have final resting place I can come visit from time to time. Maybe I'll want to scatter his ashes in the park he romped through every day. Maybe it won't even come to that.

After all, my dog is Lucky.