Her spleen had ruptured, and she'd been bleeding internally all night. She couldn't have withstood surgery. She was a 10-year-old Golden Retriever, and the breed's #1 killer is cancer.
She was my companion, my baby, and one of the largest joys in my life. At 10:30 this morning, she died with her head in my lap, much like she'd spent most of her time with me.
I've dealt with the death of people I loved. People who raised me. And yet, this pain is unsupportable. My pupski. My pain in the ass. My constant that, I always knew, wouldn't be so constant.
They go before you. I know that. But now, as I put away her food dishes, beds, bones and toys and struggle to sweep up all that blonde hair, I have a gaping wound inside me.
Here is a picture from just last year, after she'd laid in the backyard sprinklers and then came in to dry off. I laughed so hard. I loved her so much.
Goodbye, my girl.
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