After any sort of loss, there's a series of firsts that mark the path through grief. I've already been through a few of them this week, but today's is a little bittersweet. It's raining outside. It's the first rain that I haven't had Winnipeg here freaking over the sound of drops striking the roof. She would pace the house looking for some place she felt safe. The process was often infuriating because nothing seemed to calm her, and I would watch her wander into the bathroom and close the door behind her or try to cram her body under an end table. This past summer, I finally bought her a Thundershirt, and it made a world of difference. She wore that thing pretty much every day during the summer, and although it didn't stop the panic, it calmed her enough that she could at least stay in the room. Today it's been raining most of the morning, and there's Winnipeg wandering around the house. The only dogs here are quietly sleeping, and I'm not sure

Today was the first morning I prepared for and left for work without Winnipeg here. Another first. It was also the first day I came home from work knowing that she wouldn't be here to greet me. But that wasn't entirely the case. I pulled up in the driveway and sat in the car for a minute and she was there on the other side of the gate. That damn dog. I went inside for a minute and then left again to fill the water tank, and there she was. So I talked to her for a minute and realized that she's been having a lot of fun doing all the exploring that I never let her do. I guess life is different when you don't have to pay attention to fences. The beautiful part is that I know she's no longer hindered by the lameness that was affecting her the last few weeks. It was rough watching her stumble on the floor and drag her leg behind her...to know that she could no longer go for the rides she loved because she couldn't jump up in the SUV anymore. But no more. I ha

I knew this morning would be difficult. For the first time in 10 years, I did not have Winnipeg here in the morning to take out and feed. There was no call, "Come on, Winnipeg. Let's go inside." Okay, there was, but she didn't come back inside. I've cried several times. I've retold the story of how she and I both knew yesterday morning that January 1 would be her last day...how that dog lived her life on her own terms and she died on her own terms. At her own home. In my arms. In the light of the sun. I also noticed her presence very clearly when I went outside this morning. I've always had a sense of spirits around me. In fact, when our mother died, the first thing my sister asked me to do was walk around my aunt's house to see if she was around. She wasn't, and we were a little angry with her for not sticking around for us in those early, painful moments. But not my Winnipeg. Her spirit is very much here. It's like when she would go out

Ten years ago, I welcomed a tiny gray bundle from Marianna, Florida into my life. She was a beautiful blue Great Dane with a silvery coat and big floppy ears that I later had clipped. When I made the move to south Florida, she was my traveling companion who rode shotgun with me between Kissimmee and Fort Myers every week. After my divorce, she stayed with me and we formed such a strong bond that leaving her to travel was one of the hardest things I ever did. I could walk her without a leash because she never left my side for too long. I even had to hide suitcases from her because she knew that it meant I was leaving. She ran with me, leaned against me, slept with me, rode in the car with me. She lived through several other dogs here in the house, always by my side, I said good-bye to her today. I've had a feeling for the last few weeks that she was slowing down. Last night, she started throwing up just before midnight. This morning she wanted to walk the entire length of the pr