'Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.'

Dave always wanted a Husky dog, having been conceived in Alaska himself. His chance came fifteen years ago this month when during spring break Erica convinced me that it wouldn't be 'that bad' to make a visit to the animal shelter in Chicago Heights. As usual with Erica I hoped she would give up and move on to the next idea that popped into her head; however, this time she was relentless in her opinion that we needed to replace Patches our beagle who had been hit by a car earlier in the month. That fateful day I choked back tears as we strolled past the kennels and came face to face with a skinny, black and white adolescent Siberian Husky who had been found dragging a leash near the Ford plant. The rest is history. On the way home with us, she sat, freshly bathed and trimmed, between Audrey and Erica in the back seat. Seconds later she laid her head on Erica's leg and sighed, a long deep sigh that she made on many occasions in the future. From that day on she followed me from room to room, wherever I was, always present and living just that moment. . .with me. Winter was her favorite time of year and summer her least. The first time I saw her eat snow I knew we were kindred spirits because I eat snow too.

This week while I was visiting Audrey and Erica in D.C. for spring break, Pashka's health took a turn for the worst. Already nearing 17 years, blind, deaf, fairly incontinent and wracked with arthritis in her spine, she finally had to be carried outside, set down and picked up again to be taken back into the house. Throughout all of this advancement into dog antiquity she maintained her sweet spirit, became super vigilant of other dogs approaching her apartment, loved being scratched behind her ears or given a belly rub which always resulted in her sticking her tongue out to kiss the hand that touched her. I said my goodbye's to her the night before I left for the airport--reminding her that she had been a truly faithful friend and companion and that I loved her with all my heart. While I was away, Dave reluctantly took her to the vet on Wednesday and stayed with her until he knew she was off and running. This was the dog who was never allowed off a leash because huskies have to run. I am pretty sure she is pulling a sled somewhere in deep, powdery snow, ears back, slitty eyed and smiling. She died on the last day of winter.

I miss her terribly and hope I will eventually stop looking for her around the house. Dogs leave so little behind in material possessions--their collar, leash, bed and a couple of dishes. I can't believe she is gone.

The first photo above is the last I took of her, a week or so ago, when she followed me into the living room and found a lovely spot of sun to dream in.