This morning, I made a decision to let Maia go.
This picture is from this post, back in 2004, when Maia was three years old.
Right now, it doesn’t seem possible that this happened. My hands still smell like her, and I don’t want to wash them. There’s a hole in me that doesn’t make sense.
The last thing that she felt in this world was the first thing I ever did, that day eleven years ago at the shelter, when we got her – me rubbing her belly.
I did not deserve that dog. I was well aware of that the whole time that she spent with me. And she deserved a lot better than me.
I’m done typing now.