I don't think I'll ever recover.

 Florence Kling Harding loved the dogs that she and Warren had.  Her favorite was a Boston Terrier named hub, a gift from her son, Marshall.  When Hub died, Florence was so bereaved that she promised to never become attached to a dog again.  So great was her pain that she walled herself emotionally off.  When the President died in August 1923, upon returning to the White House, Florence gave the President's dog Laddie Boy away to the late President's favorite Secret Service agent. 

With that, I am sorry for the delay, but July was a horrible, terrible month. 

To get to the point, our dog Rocky died at the end of the month.  Or, as my husband put it, "Rocky has gone off ahead in search of the next adventure and will wait for us when our time comes."

To say that we are bereft is an understatement.  We are both heavy with guilt, but the decision had to be made.  He was 17 years old, in a great deal of pain, and his sweet personality was no longer, replaced instead with snarls and biting.  His quality of life wasn't good, and ours wasn't either. 

Yet, up until the past few months, he was our sweet-natured boy.  He was always such a gentleman, and funny, and enjoyed life.  And in this prime, he was a gorgeous dog, half Pomeranian, half American Eskimo. His fur sparkled in the sun.  

I still expect to see him around every corner. 

So, without dwelling on it, I know that all of you want to give condolences, but please, don't.  I don't think I could bear reading them.  It's all too fresh, our grief simply too raw, and it takes every moment for us to trudge through life without him.  The whole house is out of balance without him.  

So we push through every day, but the glow that he brought is dimming.  Even if and when another pup joins us, he'll never replace Rocky, but he'll be loved and cared for as much. 

We just miss him so much.

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