Wednesday was a bad night. I hadn't slept well for two days (approximately 6 hours in 48), so I took a melatonin at about 8.30 and was out cold by 9.15.
10.15 comes along, and Tom wakes me up.
"Daisy's gone." I didn't understand what he meant.
"How'd she get out?" I asked, still asleep.
"No, Daisy's dead, honey." I immediately burst into tears.
We got Daisy three months after we got married; she was born in November due to my sister's dog getting with the dog down the street. Daisy was the runt of four and born with a deformed front right paw. She was ours, our fuzzbutt, our princess, our baby.
10.30 pm on Wednesday night, Tom and I were digging a grave in our backyard for our beloved dog.
We don't think she suffered. Tom said she had her sleepy smile on her face when he found her in the doghouse when he'd gone out to hush Duke up (he was howling, something he never does). She was only a mid-sized dog, but her bloodline (rottweiler, shar-pei, shepherd, chow) are all large dogs, and their lifespan is only between 8-10 years.
Three years ago, she had to have a pretty invasive heartworm treatment done, and the vet did say that it could weaken her heart. We think that's what it was, because even after she was cured, she never did slow down. Spastic right up until the very end.
Duke, up until last night, hadn't slept because he has been looking for his sister (not from same parentage, but she's all he's ever known). We gave him a much-needed bath Friday morning and brought him inside (which is where he's going to be from here on). He's miserable and isn't eating much. I'm worried about him. Tom stayed home this weekend to be with him instead of coming to the con launch of the second book (I'm immortalized in print, yos).
He's not his usual self. I want my Duke back.
And my Daisy. I'm wearing her rabies tag from last year. It's a heart.
Momma, Daddy, and Duke all miss you, punkin.