This morning Chris' prized Yorkie, Chief, was hit by a car. Without going into details, I can tell you from my limited medical expertise with humans that it was over too quick for him to know what happened and that he didn't suffer. Apparently he snuck out of the house in the midmorning to go see his friend (a white fuzzball of a dog) across the street. A lady from the neighborhood came and told us what happened, and I ran outside to get him out of the street. I cradled him for a bit and just came unglued. I don't know how long I cried and babbled.
I dug a grave for him, and we laid him to rest with some of his favorite toys in a nice shady spot in the back yard.
The hardest part this evening was trying to explain to Eli why he couldn't go get Chief when we got home from the store and why he wouldn't be following us upstairs to Eli's bedroom tonight.
Chris and I first brought Chief home shortly after we got our first apartment 10 years ago. He was a runt of a puppy that both of us fell in love with. He grew into a good dog, if a bit crotchety at times and big for a Yorkie. He was Chris' companion when I was away on deployments, and she was his human. He simply tolerated me. Now he's sleeping with the angels. Maybe God will be able to finally teach him to pee outside. No, he'll probably get his own scotchguard carpet.