Dear Scooter,

I miss your little waddle. And your grumpy bark. I hope you loved living with me as much as I loved you.

Mr Butters and I miss you around the house. I hope you're happy in heaven, as I'm certain that's where you are.

You were such a good boy.

Love,

Gaylan

Dear Tedman,

We had to say goodbye Teddy on May 14, 2014. We had no choice. We had just under a year together, and I have to tell you, it was one of the finest years I've ever had. Don't get me wrong, I've loved all my dogs. But you were SO special. You brought love and light and laughter and happiness to me, the kind of which I've rarely seen in these 54 years and counting. The night you arrived home, after weeks of monitoring you and finally discovering you weren't adopting out for your health issues, I made my decision, and you arrived. Your smile was the most infectious ever. You came in that night, unpacked your bags, and settled in. It took no time at all, for us to make friends. You slipped into our lives like a glove. Our first months together were awesome. You were such an excellent co-pilot and rescue Ambassador. I loved dancing with, and cuddling you every night around suppertime. I rejoiced when you'd wander down into the office from your spot in the living room, whenever you smelled food, or anticipated the next "event" in our day. I loved celebrating you, like no other. Teddy! TEDDY! I loved how you licked my nose. My god, what a gift it was, when you would lick my nose. I loved every hair on your beautiful head. I loved policing you in the backyard, in good weather, and in bad. I loved your tippy tappy toe toe dance, the special one you'd give, when you were anticipating treats, attention, or just love, sweet love. I loved the smell of you, I loved your toes, I loved your smile, I loved your presence. Teddy, I just loved YOU. Every single thing about you, every moment together, you made my world. I will never forget you.You were brighter than a thousand suns. For gods sakes, you upstaged JC!!! You were just a star Tedman, that's what you were, and still are. I wish to god I could have one more minute with you. Ted, I have to say goodbye to 2014, and with it, you. Your picture is over my desk. Friends, family, colleagues all miss you. They SAW you. They loved you. Ted man Harrison Nadon - we will never be the same, and we thank you most sincerely, utterly, for gracing our lives. Teddy, if I may be so bold, pls wait for me. All I want to do is hold you in my arms again. Please stay on the bridge. Watch for Cyril, Mo, Max, Stormont, Petey, TrixieLu, Mishe and Choules... and Nana. Wait for me honey. If I found you in this life, I WILL find you in the next. I love you darling littleone. Kiss your face, Teddy. Thank you for your love, and your trust, Tedman.

Love,

mitch

Dear Otis,

Merry Christmas to my dear, sweet boy. My handsome, stalwart one. My little New Yorker. My hunk-a-chunk-a-love. The rock of our family. The glue that keeps it together. The little prana running around our home. My great joy. All these phrases I used over and over again with you to describe the sparkling spirit that came to me wrapped up in a dog suit (those adorable “floating cloud” eyebrows). It’s no wonder I have so may songs about you, all those silly little lyrics I set to various (admittedly, mostly lifted) melodies.

I started singing to you, about you, practically the day I met you (Hello Otis, Well hello Otis, it’s so nice to have you right where you belong…) and kept writing those little tunes throughout our more than ten years together. One of the more recent ones, that snappy little ditty I started up that night last winter while we were bracing ourselves against the cold, whipping wind and the snow (Let me love ya, Otis… I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you warm, I’ll rub your belly for all of that charm…Let me love ya, Otis), was a particularly good addition to our song catalog, I think. And one of the very first songs I wrote that included you, I’ve been singing every day since you had to go because it has given me such an incredible amount of comfort during this grieving process:

Pushkin and Otis, brothers and friends,

Pushkin and Otis, friends to the end.

Whether they’re playing or sleeping tonight

Pushkin and Otis are doing just fine.

It comforts me and brings me a modicum of happiness in the midst of the sadness to think that, after nearly six years of flying solo, Pushkin is no longer alone on the other side; you are both young and spry again, scampering around together and loving every minute of it. Now you’re alongside your big brother for our morning meditation together, and again each evening for our Om Shanti, Goodnight. We created this routine when our family was grieving over the loss of Pushkin, and the routine’s not going anywhere. You know that each morning we’re going to start the day with “Good morning, Pushkin! Good morning, Otis!” You can count on it.

You also know I’m still singing to you each day, just like I kept on singing to Pushkin after he went with the angels. I made sure before you left us that you knew, beyond all the “Otis” songs, the one special song that, whenever you hear me singing it, you know I’m singing it just for you:

I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, that this heart of mine embraces…

Yes, each day “in the park across the way” as I’m still walking your brother Galileo, I’m seeing you right there with us. I’m grateful for every minute I ever had with you, but in these recent days I’m especially thankful for the glorious year and half we had here together in New York. For all my initial concerns about how you — a Tucson dog, and a dog with some later-in-life aggressive behavior challenges — would fare in the city, you couldn’t have surprised and delighted me more. Within two days, you made New York yours: you adapted more quickly than any of us, even me. With the help of our marvelous trainer Inna, you immediately figured out how not only to tolerate neighborhood walks on a leash (no more backyard and dog door), but also how to savor those long walks in the park. You figured out how to not go berserk at the sight of another canine in the distance so we could have that time together. Awesome job, Otis! I told you over an over again how proud I was of you, and it’s so true. You were a rockstar.

You didn’t just adjust, either; you thrived. There seemed to be a new bounce in your step here in NYC. We arrived in springtime and, by the fall, it was clear you were loving the slightly cooler weather; and the way you trotted around the neighborhood, it was clear you thought you were such hot stuff anytime you were sporting one of your sweaters or jackets. So, while the rest of the family fumbled around a bit while trying to get the new groove on, you showed us all that, indeed, you can teach an old dog new tricks. More than that, the old dog is perfectly capable and happy to figure out some new things himself, as long as the day offers him a belly rub or two. One of my favorite images of you from here in New York: you, sound asleep on your back on the living room carpet, one arm outstretched — we tagged it the “Superman Pose.” You spent many an afternoon like that. A picture of utter contentment.

You were with me for a little more than a decade of your fourteen and a half years. You came to me through your Dad, who adopted you a couple of years before we all got together. He calls you his wingman because for a while it was just you and him. It was with an invitation for me to meet you that your Dad got his “in” to spend some time with me: that first night I went back to his apartment to meet you, and he and I ended up just talking until dawn. Do you remember that? He asked you to do some tricks for me because you were such a performer. Rolling around, twirling in the air… a couple of years later, you learned to jump up on the piano bench and press the keys when he asked you to play. Even back then, all you ever wanted in return was to be shown a little appreciation, a little love: a “good boy,” a belly rub, a treat.

There are a few very specific things I need to thank you for. While it’s true that most animals (at least to some extent) aim to please, one of the qualities that made you so special was your knack for making a person — any person, whether a family member or someone you just met — feel like he/she was your favorite. If a friend came to visit, you would in the quietest most un-pushy way, inch onto his/her lap for some lovin.’ Above all, let’s just say it here: you were a Grandma’s boy, and it wasn’t just for her Sunday meatballs. The attention and affection you gave Grandma let her know just how special she was to you and the rest of our family. That was a great gift you gave to her Otis, because she does a lot of thoughtful things for all of us, and sometimes the rest of us may not do as good a job as we should letting her know how much all the little things mean to us. So it was a gift to her, and something beautiful you also did for the whole family. Thank you for that.

Another thing I want to thank you for: Going back to that first night I met you… your Dad and I always joked afterwards that you gave him a strong talking to after I left that night, saying “SHE is my mama! You found her! So you better not f*#%k this up!” Yes, Otis, there is no doubt that, although your dad met you first and took on the role of your guardian, I was your mama long before I met you that night. The universe was working to bring us together from the moment you arrived on the planet. And when we did all get together in Tucson, I already had Pushkin. But what you — and later, Galileo — taught me was this miraculous thing about the human heart’s capacity: all three of you boys became my #1 at the same time. While it’s true that Pushkin got a lot of attention in his last years because he was ill, and Galileo has always required a great deal of attention — first, because he’s such a bundle of high energy and, second, because of his epilepsy — you were never taken for granted, not for a second, and no less important. Always know that. Then, now, and always, all three of my boys are my collective heartbeat.

And so, along this same line, I need to thank you for all the little moments you gave me throughout our years together, to make sure I didn’t feel like #2 either. It would have been easy enough for you to favor your Dad — your wingman. But you gave me all those times you jumped up onto the sofa to sleep beside me while I was reading; the times when I couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night and got up to get some work done, when you followed me into the office and curled up at my feet until I was ready for us to return to bed (often as the sun was rising); when it was just you and me, while Galileo spent the day at Spot to get in some playtime, and we’d go for long walks in the park and, in good weather, we’d just find a bench where we could sit together quietly. And the snuggling moments: most nights, you preferred to sleep on your dog bed in the bedroom; but sometimes, when you chose to come up onto the bed with us, in the morning you’d move from your spot near the foot of the bed to snuggle up to my side. You’d let me hug you like a teddy bear and we’d both stay in bed a little longer than usual.

Finally, I want to thank you for the last few mornings we had together. You were restless and wanting to go out for walks in the very early pre-dawn hours, around 4am. The first week of November, the weather was just starting to turn, but it was still a lot milder than it could have been for the time of year. On those last mornings, you specifically came to my side of the bed, for me to take you outside.

And so I would dress quickly and take you downstairs into the streets — pretty much empty, save some early-morning delivery trucks, or the bakers and bagel makers in the neighborhood. In that quiet, we walked and I sang. I sang your song to you, and I sang Christmas carols because I knew you wouldn’t make it to the holiday season. After walking in the grassy trails on Riverside Drive, you’d pull at the corner to go the one block up to Broadway. So we would go. And then you’d get tired, and I’d pick you up and keep singing as I walked us back home and back to bed. In my arms, you were my baby and, at the same time, you were an old man.

In everything that’s light and gay, I’ll always think of you that way…

There was as much fun and playfulness about you as there was tenderness, Otis. As far as playing went, you weren’t into toys as much as you were into clothes, but there are a couple of favorite memories I will carry with me that really highlight your playful nature. First, when you and Pushkin first bonded and he was still young and healthy, I remember the two of you running around the apartment with Billy Pilgrim, the pilgrim stuffed pet toy that was gifted to Pushkin back in his own New York days. It was the one toy you ever played with and, after Pushkin died, every once in a while you fished it out of Galileo’s toy bucket and just lay with it between your paws with your chin resting on top. I wondered then whether you were missing your older brother and whether holding Billy gave you comfort.

My second Playful Otis memory is one of you teaching a puppy Galileo how to play. You would roll with him and stay there on your back while the little tyke wrestled with you — all in ultra-slow motion. It was fascinating to watch because it seemed you knew just how gentle you needed to be, and also that you were aware you were teaching him. This was not unlike the time in the middle of the night when I was standing out in the backyard in the moonlight with your brother, who couldn’t have been more than ten-weeks old at the time. I was urging Galileo to do his business after he’d gotten me out of bed with his barking to be let outside. But once we went into the yard, he just looked up at me with his little freckled face, completely puzzled. He didn’t know what to do or where to do it yet. And then you entered the scene, walking in your lion-esque way, slowly and deliberately. First you came towards me and looked up; then you walked over to Galileo and looked at him. You took a few steps over to a shrub, lifted your leg, and proceeded in a very dignified fashion to demonstrate. Once finished, you looked back at G, then me, then just as slowly — majestically — went back to bed. The fact was — I told you this all the time while you were still on the planet, too — you were an excellent little brother to Pushkin and an excellent big brother to Galileo. Playful and protective with both.

I’ll find you in the morning sun…

Above all my dear one, I always will remember how jubilant you were. Yes, that’s the perfect word for you, from your wordsmith mother. Jubilant. Often, all it took was my walking through the door. You’d run up to me and start bounding off your front legs, like a little pogo stick. And your smile. Your smile was the sunshine and the moonlight and all the lights of all the other planets and stars bunched up together.

Yesterday was your DAY 49 — the final day, according to the Tibetan Buddhists, that your spirit might possibly still be navigating The Between. So after a long journey — for you, and for us as a family as we’ve been riding the waves of grief and praying for you each day — today, we CELEBRATE your great spirit. We started the day with a special meditation and brought a bunch of stuffed pet toys, a box of treats, and one of your dog beds to Animal Care & Control on 110th Street (which, in a nice twist, was the place responsible years ago for sending me to Bideawee, where I met Pushkin). In your honor, a few homeless pups still waiting for a forever home will have a little brighter Christmas. For the rest of the day and evening, we’ll be playing happy big band music and Christmas songs (likely, there will be some dancing around the living room), we’ll light a candle in church at tonight’s mass, and we’ll raise our glasses in a toast to you at the start of our holiday meal. Hey Otis! Hey noble spirit we call Otis! Fly with Pushkin and the angels, and have fun! We love you!

Earlier this week, your Dad, Uncle Dan, and I went to Cleopatra’s Needle to catch some jazz. Very talented musicians on stage. Piano. Drums. Upright bass. So what an opportunity it was to sit in with them. I got behind the mic for the sole purpose of singing just one song — your song. And I made sure to sing your name (that I add to the lyrics) loud and clear. I can’t know for sure whether you hear my words, or just feel the vibrations of my voice traveling to you from across the universe. Or maybe you were right there at the foot of the stage, though my human eyes can’t see you. But I know you’re here. I know you’re listening. And I know my love reaches you because the connection we have is forever.

And when the night is new

I’ll be looking at the moon, Otis

But I’ll be seeing you.

Love,

Mom

Dear Sophie,

We had 15 years together. It was a good run and I am not complaining, but I miss you terribly. I look at all the places in the house where you liked to sleep and there may as well be a black hole there they are so empty. Its been a little more than 2 months and I've stopped expecting to see you but the idea you are gone still takes my breath away from time to time. Thinking back to your younger days, I loved the way you would zoom around in figure eights when you were excited and how the feeling of sand under your feet made you switch immediately into crazy mode. I loved that you trusted us completely, even though you trusted only a few other people in this world. In your old age, you allowed us to rinse and lubricate your eye many times a day and you never gave us any flack about it, just a little tail wag as you sat down to let us have at it. My favorite old lady behavior was how you would stand up and walk over to me when you realized I had come home, and press your head against my knees so I could scratch your back and tell you hello. Most mornings you were the last to wake up, and I would carry you downstairs and tell you we had another day to enjoy. You were the first member of our family and you will always be in our hearts.

Love,

Mama

Dear Monty,

13 and a half years ago I recall being asked if I would look after an EHS auction pup - I asked what breed of dog and when I was told English Cocker Spaniel I figured I wouldn't get attached. Well, that couldn't have been further from the truth. I fell hard for you little Monty - and you became my all time best bud. Wouldn't trade that experience for anything.

You were there through my all time highs and all time lows - tail forever wagging or sitting next to me with your head on my lap just letting me be in the moment - what a gift. I knew nothing about “training” a dog - all I knew was that I loved you and needed to take the best care possible of you. We did so much together - long walks - squirrel chasing (that was all you - I didn’t partake) - long car trips to Texas or Louisiana and of course vacations to Vermont with Sharon (your pack and my pack). Those were the best - you loved Lake Champlain - for all three of us it was our favorite place on earth. You just loved the water and could spend all day in it if we let you! Believe it or not doggy paddling wore you out so I bought you a life vest to help with the fatigue factor. As soon as we grabbed that life vest and showed it to you - you knew it was Monty time at the shore of Lake Champlain. Seeing you run with your ears flapping back and that tongue hanging out and that glimmer in your eye was such a site. I knew how happy you were to be there - and us too. We would spend hours throwing rocks into the water watching you chase each splash that occurred once they landed. One summer you learned how to submerge your head underwater and blow bubbles while trying to retrieve the large shells that often found their way to the shore. Another activity that you could spend a fair amount of time doing. Such amazing memories with such a loyal companion. I will forever hold them close to my heart.

Monty, you were not a grumpy pup – even in the face of the many medical issues you were handed during your time with me. You endured 3 major surgeries on that darn left hind leg of yours. Through it all you just patiently waited for the cone to be taken off and the last of the meds to be given – without so much as a whimper. This last issue – inflammatory bowel disease did get the best of you my boy. We tried everything - to no avail. I knew it was time, when the little dog who lived to eat had no more interest in food. It pained Sharon and I to take you to the vet that one last time – but we did – for you (not for us as we would want you to stay forever), as you had grown weary and we knew you were in pain. There was no curing this issue. So we bid you farewell - … I hated that day.

About a month and a half after my least favorite day with you – Sharon and I took a trip to Dog Mountain to visit Dog Chapel (Welcome: All Creeds, All Breeds, No Dogmas Allowed) which is in (you guessed it) Vermont. I needed to say good bye to you in my own way – and the Dog Chapel was the place to do that. It’s where pet parents can go and leave a note for the fur kid they have had to part with. So that’s what I did. It was a rainy day in Connecticut when we made the journey – and as we crossed into Vermont there was nothing but clear skies. It was the most amazing day – and you were there in my heart the entire time (you still are). Your picture and my note to you are in Dog Chapel – I didn’t say good bye – instead I said until we meet again.

Miss you my dear loyal friend…

Love,

Pam

Dear Carson,

I miss you more and more as each day goes by.

I am so sorry that you got attacked by the other dogs. I know you had a seizure and they were trying to get you to respond to them. You were the pack leader.

I still am very angry that the vet didn't do a thorough assessment to examine all your injuries. You needed to stay in the hospital for a few days, but he insisted that you would be fine in a few days. This was on July 25, 2014.

The following morning after giving you your meds, you seemed more active. I was crying tears of joy seeing you move around. You went and laid under the table and that is where you stayed. On July 27, 2014 you had another seizure and died in my arms.

I hope that you know how much I loved you and still do and always will. You were my little buddy and my travel companion. Going bye bye is not the same.

Daddy got me another Beagle puppy to love. I named him Carlin, which means "little champion". I see so much of you in him everyday and it brings tears to my eyes but I know you are teaching him how to be a good Beagle. I tell Carlin about you all the time.

Unfortunately 5 weeks after you passed, we lost another one of our boys to Parvo.

I know you are taking care of Gus Gus for me and believe he went to be with you so you weren't alone.

You may be gone but you are forever in my heart Carson.

I love you to the moon and back and just wish I could cuddle with you one more time.

Until we meet again, run and play and enjoy your Rawhides.

Love,

Mom - Marie

Dear Fish,

Little did I know that I was the one being rescued.

A number of years ago, I lost my first Newfoundland dog at only a year and half old after multiple hip replacement surgeries failed. I swore I would never get another Newfoundland again.

We moved & my life was an utter mess until I eventually made the decision to get some help. But none the less I didn't like myself, or my life at the time.

Less than a month later, out of the clear blue, came a phone call from a rescue group out of South Dakota asking if we were interested in adopting a Newfie that had been abandoned on a farm for the first year and a half of his life. Now bare in mind we hadn’t signed up on a list of potential adaptors… to this day we don’t know how they got our number in the first place. All we know was that they had a Newfie named Fish (strange name for a dog), and wanted to know if we wanted to adopt him. They said that they were going to make him a service dog, but his hips were not good enough for that, and that if we wanted him we could have you, so we did.

We went to pick up Fish in SD. They had to shave down the dog because his coat was so matted down it was causing skin infections. He had a scar across the bridge of his nose from fighting off coyotes on the farm. I remember walking up to this mess of a dog, who barked and tried jumping on me and thought to myself… what the hell did I get myself into? I grabbed the leash and began giving commands and training him on the spot.

From that day forward … he never left my side.

Through all of my life changes, divorce, new jobs, relocating twice (once across the country), relationships … he was the single constant that I could always count on. On bad days, I would sit at my chair and sometimes breakdown because I thought life was too much… and he would walk up to me, nudge my arm, whine and bark at me. It was like he was saying “Excuse me, what are you crying about? You know what I’ve gone through in my life, you can get through this, this my friend is easy!”. He was amazing.

Lately he stopped eating, and lost a dramatic amount of weight. This morning, during emergency surgery, they found a massive inoperable tumor. I gave my vet permission to end his suffering. It was so hard. When we brought him in I knew something was wrong, and I prayed to my higher power that if there is something wrong, to take him NOW, and not make him suffer - prayer answered.

Sometimes, someone or something is placed into your life, and there is no earthly answer as to why or how. I call it a “God Moment”, because that is the only explanation. That was Fish. Fish entering my life was indeed a “God Moment”. I don’t know how they found our number, I don’t know how I let my now ex-wife talk me into adopting him. All I know is that he was, as my Mom put it upon hearing the bad news, “the one rock I had in my life”. Truer words were never spoken.

I have always said that we as human beings are blessed that we have the ability to stop the suffering of our companions when they are ill. This holds true today. As much as it hurts me, I know that he is no longer suffering, which is truly the greatest gift I could give him. I gave it to him when he was rescued, and gave him an amazing life, and in death I also was able to give him that gift.

No one can understand how he has given that gift back to me ten-fold. He truly saved me from me, in a sense he rescued me. So while that handsome black and white newfie named Fish wasn’t good enough to be an official “service dog”, he was the biggest, slobberingest, life-saving-service-dog money could never buy.

My dearest Fisher (boo-boo) you are free my friend. Thank you for your companionship. Thank you for my life. Thank you for the smiles and laughter. Thank you for being by my side for the past 5 plus years. Go run, go play, go be.

Love,

Your friend, the one you rescued - Erin

Dear Bunny,

You came into my life nearly 6 years ago as a senior gal that had been bred and discarded. Thankfully you were rescued by OBHR and then you rescued me.

We drove 800 miles to pick you up in Ohio and then headed back to Alabama. You walked through our front door as if you had lived here all your life and took the role as Queen without a hitch. You fit our family like a glove. You loved your walks on the golf course and your dips in the ponds. More than anything, you loved food and savored every single bite. You loved us as much as we loved you, yet you were always a bit aloof. You were stingy with kisses but we knew that you really meant it when you would give one. (or we had food on our face) You were far from a lap dog, but you were always present. You would always appeared in every room I was in. Almost stealth like, which was impressive for a 90 pound basset. You wore your old age like a crown and never complained. Not even once.

I want you know that I did not know how sick you really were. I knew there was something wrong but neither the vet nor I realized what. Even if I did, there was nothing I could do. Your cancer spread so quickly and at 14 1/2 I would never have tried to operate. I would rather lose you in my arms that on an operating table.

It has only been 6 days since I last saw your gentle face. I know that your mind and your heart wanted to stay, but your body had nothing left. I think you knew it was time. I held you in my arms and stoked your soft brow as you drifted to the bridge. Your paw was in my hand as I promised you it would be.

I miss your gentle snores, your grunts and your groans. I miss waking up and lying on the floor with you for our morning cuddle. You would yawn and stretch with acknowledgement. I miss the water that dribbled from your mouth with every drink. I miss the demanding barks at the stroke of 5pm for your dinner and most of all, I miss your happy waddle to the front door to greet me. It didn't matter if I had been gone 10 minutes or 10 hours, the greeting was celebratory!

I am happy that you will no longer suffer with your fear of storms. The fear that you suffered was always so hard on us both. I am glad that you will never go through that fear again.

Boo, Emma and Dusty are wondering where you are. I don't know how a house can be so empty when I have three furkids to keep me company, but it does.

On Tuesday I will pick up your ashes and bring you home. But I know that they are only symbolic. I know you are at the bridge. Living and loving and waiting for me. You will always be with me, forever in my heart.

Thank you for sharing your life with me. Thank you for your love.

Kisses and hugs until I see you again.

xoxo

Love,

Mom mom

Dear Emmy,

I adopted you from a cocker spaniel rescue about 7 years ago and when I picked you up on January 6, 2008, you forever changed my life - for the better. I loved playing with your floppy ears, taking you to Rice over the weekends, and cuddling with you in bed. When I think of you, you are chasing bunnies at Rice, eating the cream cheese frosting off my carrot cake, lying on your back with your belly in the air, eating crayons off the floor that my daughter has dropped, scratching our bedsheets to make yourself a warm spot to sit, sitting on my lap when I am driving, and watching me go through the nighttime routine with my daughter. You taught me how to care for someone other than myself and prepared me for how to love my children. Even when you started to feel ill, you always had enough energy to greet me, nudge my hand for a scratch, follow me around the house, and to patiently sit next to me while I played with the kids.

I miss you so much and wish I could just see you again, give you a hug, kiss you on your nose and forehead, and give you a neck scratch and belly fart. It was beyond painful to let you go but I knew I had to for you. I let a piece of myself go that day too because I never want you to feel alone- I want a part of me to always be with you.

Thank you for sharing your life with me. I am a better person because of you. I love you immensely and I hope one day I can take you to the park again.

Love,

Angela

Dear Rexy,

My best friend, I miss you everyday since we have parted.....I remember so vividly the day we brought you home from MSU, I have never been so scared in my life, the mere thought of you leaving me made my whole body shake and the pain in my heart was too much to bear, I wanted nothing more for you than to be healthy and playing with your brother again and going everywhere with your Mom..... I tried everything I could manage and if there was a slight percentage that you would have had a quality life, I would have risked it all for you!!! You filled my days Rexy, you truly are my best friend and your personality was hilarious you really acted human at times, but sensitive mostly to me (Mom) as if you knew what I was saying and thinking at times, I have never experienced the love and bond btwn an animal and an owner until you, I am forever grateful of that.....and beyond grateful that I was blessed with you in my life, 10 years was too short, I would do it all over again with you! I miss you so much, it hurts down to my toes... You are forever in my heart and soul my precious son...

Love,

Mom (Amy)