Our little dog Spike died today.
We knew it was coming, he was 16 years old. He's been in decline and we knew he wasn't going to make it much longer. Knowing doesn't help though. Not at all.
He's not going to be climbing onto the back of the couch to rest his front paws and head on my shoulder anymore. He's not going to prance around like a hot-shit bastard after getting groomed anymore. He's not going to bark at every fucking thing in the universe anymore.
His buddy Missy keeps looking for him and then laying on his bed. Breaks my heart to watch her mope.
Sorry to be such a downer, but I'm hurting and this helps.
Goddamn it, I hate it when this happens.