If it's not one thing...

Tonight finds me incredibly sad. This afternoon I had to put my dog, Pete, to sleep. It turns out that limp Pete has had for the last month was bone cancer that had spread to his lungs. In the last couple of days, the cancer had weakened his bone to the point it broke. There was no point in further treatment. He died in my arms at about 4pm. He was 10.

His breeder named him "Wicked" and never was there a more appropriate name. He loved nothing more that to chase cats, steal food from the kids and snuggle into any bed left unattended. He could jump higher than any dog I've ever seen. In fact, when he was younger, his hind legs would hit my shoulder when he jumped excitedly at the park. (I'm 5'7", so this was really something.)

Pete, despite his many failings, was a dog with a gentle soul. He was the dog who got up with me to tend to babies in the middle of the night. He was the dog who logged more walking miles than any friend. He was the dog who made me laugh so hard I cried, usually after I recovered from wanting to kill him. He managed to break 4 plates in one mad dash across the living room one night. He once stole an entire pork tenderloin off the counter. He ate more than one gingerbread house. He also knocked me down more times than I can count, but unbelievably, I only remember seeing him knock down the kids a handful of times. He was two when La Nina came home from China, but adapted beautifully to life with a child, especially when he figured out she dropped food and he liked the food she dropped.

While I know this was the right thing to do, putting a pet to down is an incredibly hard thing to do. Especially at this time of the year. Especially after the past couple of months we've had. Especially when you think a trip to the vet might yield a bad prognosis, but when you expect to have time.

For the first time in probably 20 years, I live in a dog-less house. No one will meet me when I get out of bed in the early in the morning. No one will help me when the kids have a nightmare. No one will clean my floor after a really bad spill. Well, I guess I'll clean up after a bad spill, but no one will run the pre-clean cycle with his tongue.

To my dear Wicked Pete aka Navarro's Burning Sky: rest in peace my pal. You were loved and you will be missed.