When a Good Dog Dies

It’s been a month and two days since we buried Hanna–my second precious West Highland White terrier–at the rich age of 16 years and 4 months. Most of the time, I’m okay.  She was, after all, a very old lady and she had a wonderful life.
Today I took her left-over food to the Humane Society.  It was hard to do.  I felt sad and missed her. It felt like slap. Giving my dog’s food away.  Little things make me miss her. Like when I got teary-eyed in the grocery store yesterday while walking down  the dog food section to pick up a can of food for Hanna and remembered that she’s not here any more.  Most of the time I’m okay, but her absence has left void in this house.  Image

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