I just got the shitty news from Pop's that Pete died a scant thirty minute ago. I guess dad was out with some people, got home, found Pete on the footstool wheezing and drooling.. Pops was trying to get him up to see what was happening, and Pete gave his last breath in his arms.

Such a classic Pete maneuver - hold out until the most important person in his world was there and then close his eyes for good.

No more Pete chasing squirrels, no more Pete crawling up and snorting on you, no more Pete haircuts or nail trimmings, and no more Pete to fetch undersized balls and stuffed animals.

For a fourteen pound King Charles Spaniel he was a hell of a dog. Loyal like the day is long, attentive, and always there to cuddle.

Pops is really fucking tore up and, frankly, nothing spooks me worse than that. Well.. anymore.

Time to play the game of "let's not drink too much tonight".