The death of a dog.

Wrangell was a sweet, long haired (but purebread) Siberian Husky. He was about 13 years old and selectively deaf. He couldn't hear me calling him, but he could hear dishes being put into the dishwasher. His decline was so subtle that we didn't really notice it until one day he could no longer get up if he fell, couldn't climb steps, and didn't care about treats.

My husband took him to be put down on the day after my birthday. What made it harder was that he was actually excited about going for a ride in the car. My husband still can't talk about it. It really hit him hard (Wrangell was born on his daughter's bed). Me too, but not as bad.

I spent the next three days scrubbing floors. I guess that was a way to cope. Those big, old dirty dog feet had brought in a lot of dirt. Now my floors are very clean. Now I know how unimportant clean floors are.

He was so sweet.