Seven years, without the itch

They say most marriages are doomed to failure because of what’s known as “the seven year itch.” For some reason or another, after seven years of marriage, most folks want to move on to someone else.

But you know what? Not me.

Today is the seventh anniversary I remarried my husband and the truth is, I couldn’t be happier. I have NO regrets! Yes, I lost friends because I went back to him. (So-called “friends.”) And, yes, I got harsh criticism from family members for remarrying him, but today I can say that it was the right choice I made. I did it because I wanted to make things right for my daughter. And while things were hard at first, today, everything’s perfect. My husband treats me like a queen!

The one thing that stood out about my decision to go back to him was this: He was there for me, at my side, when I was pushing him away. After I passed out at the bookstore and got a ride home from a friend, he rushed over to check on me and make sure I was okay. After I walked to a job interview in freezing weather and ended up on his doorstep for a ride home, he made sure I was warm and comfortable again before driving me home.

I divorced this man because our marriage was not what it should be. And I remarried this man because I started to have a little glint of hope that our marriage WILL be what it should be. If only given the chance. And today, after seven years, I can now say that it is. It was not perfect at first but it has gotten better.

This has given me faith in giving second chances. I have given him a second chance and he has NOT made me regret it, at all. He has proved to me that he can be the husband and father he was meant to be. And he IS a good husband and a good father. He has not disrespected me at all, even during the times I was mad at him and being unkind to him. He never treated me wrong. And I knew this was because he loved me. He loved me no matter what happened, and he never let me go.

The bottom line is this: He. Was. There. When no one else was. That’s love. And that’s what I’m feeling for this man more than ever before nowadays.

We celebrated our anniversary both yesterday and today. Today marks seven years. Here’s to seven, and many, years more!

Summer Sundays

When I woke up this morning, one thought struck me: “Today is Sunday. Time to get ready for the Sunday routine.” Then I remembered something: It’s summer vacation. As of Tuesday, June 17th, both of my kids were out of school.

So that means that it’s time for a DIFFERENT Sunday routine!

All this time during the school year, the Sunday routine involved getting ready for another busy week of jumping in and out of my car, running the kids to and from school, babysitting, running errands and just taking care of things for that week (like, say, a doctor appointment). So, every Sunday, I’d make sure the kids had clean clothes to wear for school, that backpacks were in their proper locations, that there was enough money in lunch accounts, each child had everything ready to go for the next day, and that there was enough gas in the car for yet another driving spree. I also made sure the towels were washed, work clothes were clean and ready for wear, and that there were meals planned for Monday.

Now, though, I don’t have to worry about all of those things. Sure, I still need to wash all the towels and make sure work clothes are ready for Monday, but all that other stuff, especially the school stuff, is not too much of a priority anymore.

It’s SUMMER! We take each week one at a time and see what comes up.

This week, for example, Jesse goes to summer school, and Jennifer has plans to hang out with friends. I can pretty much figure out what will need to be done today to prepare for all of that. (Thank goodness no more rushing to the store before school to get Jesse a Lunchables for his lunches!) Laundry will need to be done and gas WILL need to be in my car, but aside from that, everything else is pretty much free and clear.

So basically I am asking myself, now that the kids are out of school, what AM I going to do with my Sundays?

I have been spending my weekend trying to get caught up on things. Reading and answering emails, reading other stuff, and going through my files to make sure everything is current. I also worked on the July budget plan and decided on some things I’ll need to take care of for next month. But as for today? I don’t know about anything new to implement for a new Sunday routine. I mean, I use my weekends to get caught up on stuff, work on major projects I don’t have time for during the week, try my hand at a different project I’ve been playing around with in my mind for some time, hang out on the Internet (Facebook and Pinterest), and just chill. And all of that sounds like good stuff to do on the weekends, but there still needs to be something different that I do just for Sundays. Saturday night is "movie night." Maybe we could start making Sundays a "movie night," too.

The summer Sundays need to be different than the school year Sundays. Now that the kids are out of school, I don’t have to worry about the “Sunday routine” anymore. In fact, I don’t even think there should be a “Sunday routine” anymore. There should just be a Sunday.

I have a “summer schedule” I created for the kids some time back and I am seriously thinking of putting it to use again. We already have been enjoying our “one week of laziness” after school let out, but after that’s all over with, I think getting back into a routine would be a good thing to do for the kids. And having said that, I think it would be a good idea to keep Sundays open for whatever we (or I) want to do with them. No rushing or worrying about being ready for Monday morning. I think that, just as Saturdays are meant to be “free days” and days we do pretty much whatever comes up, the summer Sundays should be the same way.

The story (on the Internet) so far

For some time now, I have used Google Alerts, and while it hasn’t been perfect (I catch things Google Alerts has not), for the most part, it has worked out okay. For this reason, I keep using it. Well, yesterday I got an alert for something related to a screen name I use on deviantart, as well as Absolute Write. I checked out what it was this morning and, sure enough, it was about something related to me. It was a poem I’d written in the fall of 2006, at a time in my life when I was divorced. (We have since reconciled.)

I read the poem and while it was emotional and pretty much captured what I was trying to express, I couldn’t help but feel angry when reading it all over again. If I had been reading that poem on a piece of paper, I would’ve torn it up into millions of little pieces. I don’t like to think about that part of my life. I don’t like to even REMEMBER that part of my life. That part of my life was HORRIBLE. That divorce was the biggest ever mistake that I have made in my life – and I say that even though my father refuses to speak to me because of yet another mistake I have made. But this one, THIS one, was a mistake, because it caused so much heartache and pain for my little girl. As it was, she can’t even remember this part of our lives. She has mentally blocked it all out. I hate myself for doing what I did and only because I broke my little girl’s heart. Anyone who is not a parent could not possibly understand the terrible guilt and trauma I felt over seeing her be as hurt as she was over the divorce. I thought that we would have a better, happier life. I was in love with someone else -–who ended up NEVER entering our lives. And that is part of the reason why I am so angry at myself for all that mess. I was stupid and naïve.

But I know I cannot keep beating myself up over it. All that is in the past. We are a family again and we are all happy to be with each other. And I thank my lucky stars that it brought my son, Jesse, into our lives. We have moved beyond all of that.

Still, I know there will be the occasional reminders of that part of my past. I know these poems I posted on dA are one of those reminders. Yes, I could take them all down. I could remove all of the blog posts and all the pictures, etc., that could remind me of that part of my past. But I don’t do that. I don’t delete or erase things that I have posted on the Internet. Those are ALL parts of my past and the person that I was at that time. They are a reflection of who I used to be, but not who I am now. I have definitely moved on past all that and don’t spend any time reflecting on things I wrote or posted about which are related to those things in my past. I just keep moving forward. Those things will stay there, because they ARE my past and they ARE who I used to be, but they do not reflect who I am now. Everything that I share and post about now reflects who I am now.

If anything, I can use all those reminders of past pains and past mistakes as a chance to remember all that I have learned from them. I can look back and think about what I learned, what I have been through and all the things I have had to deal with in this life, without allowing it to ruin my whole day.  It’s like mental reminders. Sometimes there will be good things to remember from my past and sometimes there will be bad things to remember from my past. I must treat the bad things the same way I treat actual bad memories: Think about what I learned because of those experiences and then push all the rest of it away. Don’t dwell on it. Don’t get emotional about it. Just remember the lesson, push it all away, then keep going. And don’t look back.

Dogs on the loose

You know, you usually don’t expect a whole lot of interesting stuff to happen when you go outside to get the mail. Usually, you walk outside, open the creaking mailbox, frown over the spiders hurriedly crawling back into the darkness, then reach in to grab the mail. You retrieve the mail from the mailbox, groan over the sight of a bill, then lazily, disinterestedly close the mailbox and turn around to walk back into the house.

Yawn!

Yet it is something we do day after day after day. Well, except on Sundays! Boring stuff, I know, but it’s one of those monotonous rituals of our lives!

Except today, for me, going out to get the mail was not as boring as it normally is.

After I got the mail and released the obligatory groan over the sight of a bill, I turned to walk back to my house … then nearly jumped sky-high. I saw this THING charging right at me, barking its head off.

The first thing I realized was that this “thing” was a dog.

The second thing I realized was that it was a small dog.

The third thing I realized was that this small dog actually belonged to one of my neighbors. Apparently, it had somehow or another gotten outside! I don’t know the neighbor personally – I’ve been to his yard sales and have seen his wife moving around in the front yard – but I did know that he had a few Chihuahuas. This one was one of his and I soon learned another one had gotten out, too. Following the trail, I saw WHERE they’d gotten out (one of them even crawled back through the hole under the fence as if to show me just how it had been done) and there was a third Chihuahua at that fence, barking and wagging its tail.

Uh-oh. My neighbor’s dogs had dug a way out of their yard. This was not good. So I went to the neighbor’s door and knocked, hoping I could relay to them that their dogs were getting out of the yard. But nobody answered. I waited a while and still no response. There was a car parked in the driveway but that didn’t necessarily mean someone was home.

I decided to come back later to try again. I walked back to my house, advising the one dog still on the loose to stay out of the street, and proceeded to have lunch. As I ate lunch, I kept my eyes on the dogs through my kitchen window. I noticed a UPS van pull up to the house and a UPS carrier jump out of the truck to deliver a package. Just as I was wondering if he’d leave it there after no answer at the door, I saw another neighbor walk out of her house carrying her baby to go talk to the UPS guy. Hm, did this mean she knew those neighbors and often held packages for them for when they weren’t home?

I watched the dogs some more after the UPS truck drove off. Two of them were at another neighbor’s fence, barking at the big dog that was in that yard. This fence has an opening on one side and I was worried that the big dog could stretch his head through far enough to bite one of the little dogs. (I have heard too many stories of small dogs wandering into yards and being mauled by large dogs.)  I was concerned about these dogs getting hurt, maybe even run over by a car, before the owners got home, so I decided to walk over to the other neighbor’s house to ask her if she knew the people who lived there and could let them know that their dogs got out. But when I got there, she told me she didn’t know them and suggested I check in with another neighbor, a neighbor who I actually know. (Our sons play together.) I walked to this neighbor’s house and told him the situation. Fortunately, he DID know those dog’s owners, and he jumped into action to take care of that problem. I stood at his door and made idle chit-chat with his son while he was over there.

Soon, the dog’s owner pulled up in his truck, and my neighbor told him about what had happened. He waved his thanks and got his dogs back in his yard.

I am grateful I was able to help make sure those dogs were okay. Normally, most people think they should not get involved in things like that, but we are a tight-knit neighborhood and we all watch out for each other. Also, I just didn’t feel right ignoring this and going about my own business. I would have felt pretty bad if something had happened to one or all of those dogs and I could have prevented that. I mean, I just lost my dog, and I know how painful it is. I didn’t want that to happen to my neighbor. So, in the end, I’m glad I did something and that the dogs are once again safe. 

Work hours

This morning, I happened to mention in a Facebook comment about two jobs I had to work just to put food on the table for what has become known as the “lean times” my daughter and I went through while here in Oregon. They may NOT have been officially “jobs” jobs but, upon reflection, I had to think, wow, I sure put in a lot of hours for those two jobs, more than what would be a normal fulltime job! For example, with the babysitting job, where I was paid only a dollar an hour, it was for 12 hours a day, Monday through Friday. Then after that ended, I took a brief nap (because I started at 5 a.m.) and then I went next door to clean my neighbor’s house for 5 hours. For both times, my young daughter was with me.

And, for a moment, while I was reeling over the 12 hours of babysitting I put in on those days, I recalled there was one other job I had where I worked that many hours, too: Freelance writing. At first, I started working 8 hours a day as a freelancer, Monday through Friday, but later I started working an average of 12 hours a day. I know this meant A LOT of time at the computer and to this day I still regret all the time I missed with my daughter who was a toddler at that time, but I thought if I put in the time, I would earn good money and, hopefully, achieve my goal of getting an article into a glossy. One of those years, I did make good money from freelancing, but I didn’t get into a major magazine. After 10 years at bat for freelance writing, I threw in the towel. I never accomplished my goal, but I started to think I was putting in more than I got out of it. I just didn’t like working for a “possible” check anymore. Eventually, I settled into a regular gig with a guaranteed payout, but that time around, I changed the number of hours I spent at it.

These days, I work another part-time job, and I don’t miss putting in those 8-hour or 12-hour days. (Though, sometimes, with this gig, I do work for 8 hours.) The job is the same as that 12-hour babysitting gig, though this time the pay is a little better. It’s not perfect, but I am SO, SO glad it does not require 12 hours of my time Monday though Friday anymore. No more 17-hour workdays for me! And I’m also glad I don’t start at 5 a.m. again, either.

This babysitting job will come to an end soon. I have been trying to figure out what kind of work I can pursue for the months of July and August. Sometimes I think about trying my hand at freelancing again, just to see if I can finally, FINALLY accomplish that goal of getting published in a major magazine, but I have heard those markets are harder than ever to break into and, if you have not been published anywhere recently or been published in ANOTHER major market, your chances of getting published in a major magazine are even slimmer. That stubborn side of me wants to still give it a try anyway, and I have decided that if I do indeed give it a try, I won’t be putting as many hours into it as before. In fact, the whole aspect of not being guaranteed any check at all from my efforts has made me further decide that I should set my sights on a temporary job that DOES guarantee payment, and just do the freelancing thing on the side to work on that goal.

RIP Chewie

Yesterday, we had to say goodbye to a dear four-legged friend, Chewbacca. We called him “Chewie” for short. When people asked why I named my dog Chewie, I’d tell them it was short for “Chewbacca” and they’d laugh over a dog so small being named after something so big. Well, he may have been a small dog, but he acted like he was ten times bigger than his size. Chewie entered my life when I was 19 years old. I named him Chewbacca because he looked like a Wookiee when he was born.

Chewie was one of the pups that my mom’s dog, Rosarita (“Rosie”), gave birth to. His father, Jose, also my mom’s dog, was a Chihuahua and Rosie was a Chi-Poo – part Chihuahua, part Poodle. Chewie had a strong Poodle side to him because he was so furry and his tail would curl up. The other pups went to siblings as well as my cousin, Joe. My sister, Melissa, ended up giving her puppy, Hershey, away so we were never able to keep tabs on him. My sister, Jeanette, kept another pup, Toby, with her until he passed away. (You can read my post, “Remembering Toby,” here.) My other sister, Millie, also had her pup, Baby Bop, with her until she passed away. The youngest pup, Josita, tragically drowned in a swimming pool. Later on, Jose was given away when my mom was not able to take him with her to her new house and I was not allowed to care for him anymore (my landlord at that time raised hell over us having the extra dog, despite my telling him we were taking care of the dog for someone else). Sometime after that, Rosie ran away and we never found her.

For a long time, Chewie shared my attention with another dog I had named Lukas. Lukas was an Australian Shepherd. They were together since Chewie was born. Lukas died when he was 8 years old and for a long time Chewie was depressed over losing his friend. He would not eat, mostly slept or just sadly laid around the house. After a while, Chewie got used to being the only dog in the house. When I watched a friend’s sister’s dog for her, with the dog being a Chihuahua, Chewie was back to his old happy self again. He was obviously the kind of dog who wanted companionship and for a year this dog was his companion. After she left, he wasn’t so active or “happy” anymore. But because we were not allowed to have another dog, we often spoiled Chewie and gave him lots of love and attention. He wasn’t just our dog; he was family.

Chewie adapted really well when I had my first child, at age 27. Really, there were none of the problems of introducing a baby into the home when there was a dog there. Chewie and Jennifer were like best buddies. Things were different when Jesse came along, though. Chewie had this whole “who are YOU?” attitude with Jesse. He was curious about him. I made sure the two of them got acquainted with each other in their own way and at their own pace. Jesse and Chewie often hung out together and pretty much got along, but Chewie always had this wariness about him with Jesse. In fact, he was always wary with every single male he came into contact with. (He often nipped at the feet of male friends who were in the house. It got to the point where I had to keep him in my bedroom when a male came into the house and after that person left, I’d open my bedroom door and Chewie came charging out of the room, running around the house and sniffing and barking. Seriously, sometimes he even snapped at my own husband!)

For a long time, Chewie slept on my bed with me. This was actually a good thing for me, being deaf. Anytime someone knocked at the door, Chewie made such a commotion barking and moving around on the bottom part of the bed that he woke me up. (One of my aunts and I tried to teach Chewie hand signals once, like how they use for service dogs, but it didn’t work very well.) Then he couldn’t sleep on the bed anymore because my husband was affected by the pet dander, so I got Chewie a couple of comfy dog beds and kept one by the desk, where he often slept as I sat there writing, and one at the end of my bed. (The pet bed by the desk is still there. I haven’t had the heart to move it away yet.)

The thing about me is that I have moved around quite a bit. At first, in California, it was from one city to another, and Chewie was right there in the car or the truck with me. He also rode in the truck, on my lap, when we moved to Oregon.  When we went to California to attend a nephew’s wedding, however, a friend’s son watched Chewie. When we went to California again to visit family, we hired someone, a professional pet sitter, to take care of him. Then when we traveled to St. Louis to see my mom, Chewie was cared for at Tall Oaks Dog Resort. The folks there just fell in love with him and he got along well with their family dog, Midnight.

There are so many memories I have of Chewie. After 21 years, I suppose that is to be expected. We have a lot of pictures of him. He DID NOT like having his picture taken (neither do I! LOL) but sometimes we were able to get him in a picture. Sometimes I had to be quick to take his picture because he often turned his head away. (I actually have a picture of him turning his head away from the camera – I was not quick enough to snatch the pic!). Oh, and Chewie also did not like baths. One time, he was standing outside the bathroom door when I turned the faucet on. He heard the water come on and took off running! Many times he would hide from me (even for those times he somehow knew I was going to take him to the vet) but I usually found him. He was VERY grumpy during bathtime! He also didn’t like having his nails clipped.

Chewie was a house dog but he loved being outside, too – as long as the weather was nice! He hated the snow. (After 9 years in Oregon, he never got used to the snow.) One time, when we had “Snowpocalypse” last winter, Chewie actually got stuck in a giant mound of snow! (Jennifer had to run outside to rescue him.) But if the sun was shining, he was a happy doggy. He LOVED the sunny weather. (I guess that’s because he was born in and spent most of his life in the desert.) Many times, when the weather was good, he’d run around and play in the grass. (He LOVED the grassy yard – which was a nice change from the dirt and sand in the desert.) He’d also go exploring in the yards and hang out in a favorite spot. So if the weather was good, I’d leave Chewie outside for a while so that he could enjoy it.

Another thing Chewie loved was car rides. I often had him with me in the car when I ran errands but only for those errands that did not mean leaving him in the car. Like, sometimes when I had to drop off mail at the drive-thru mailboxes, or return library books at the drive-thru window, or use the drive-thru at the bank, Chewie got to ride along. He’d love sticking his head out the window as he sat on my lap, enjoying the wind in his ears. Sometimes he even barked at people! As he got older and could not stand very well, I would take him out for a ride in my car and hold him up near the window so he could feel the wind.

As he got older, Chewie suffered from some pretty bad health problems. He had glaucoma in both of his eyes, making him nearly blind in his final days. He also had arthritis and a level 4 heart murmur. His hearing started to get worse in old age, too. His spine became curved in his last days, making him look like he had a hunchback, and many times he’d become disoriented and walk around in circles. Sometimes he would walk into the walls or a door. Then he started having seizures. When the first one happened, I didn’t even know what it was and I was scared. I thought he would die right there. But he did not. As his health got worse, I was too nervous to be away from home for too long. I mean, what if he had another seizure? (Well, I know I have always been a homebody, but having a senior dog with serious health problems made me even more so.) Sometimes Chewie could not get up to go outside to the bathroom and many times he’d fall off the step when trying to come back inside the house. Sometimes he would fall when going to the bathroom, making it a job for me to clean him up when this happened. Chewie had lost some of his teeth when he bit the sleeve of a visiting male friend, but he started losing more of his teeth. Eventually, the bottom part of his mouth became rotten and he could hardly eat or drink water.

As much as it hurt me, I realized that the time had come to consider euthanizing him. It was a very painful decision to make. For a while, I was against it and I fought with my husband over it. But after it got to where Chewie could hardly stand up anymore, I knew that it was time. Especially after my husband told me one morning that he’d found Chewie on the floor in the hallway the night before, twitching and going to the bathroom on himself. I knew he was suffering and I had to do the responsible thing as a pet owner: I had to put him down. I loved Chewie dearly but I knew that it was selfish to allow him to continue to suffer like that. I mean, he could hardly eat. He couldn’t get up to go to the bathroom. That is no way to live, especially for a dog.

However, when I told the kids we would have to put Chewie down, they fought me on that. They kept pleading to me to allow Chewie to die naturally. I told them I wanted that to happen, but he was suffering and it was not right to allow him to continue to suffer like that.

This was the conversation that has been going on for the past several days. Meanwhile, I prayed for an alternative solution. I just asked God to please help Chewie and bring an end to his suffering. And many times, when it was peaceful in the house and I was alone with him as he slept, I let Chewie know that if he left us, it would be okay. We would be sad and we would miss him, but we all knew that he had to go home now and be with his family again. We knew and accepted that it was his time to go.

Yesterday ended up being the day he went home. And, thank God, he was able to have a natural death. I did not have to move forward in putting him down. We all knew that it was going to happen any day now. We gave Chewie extra love, support, attention and hugs because we knew that each day with him could be his last.

In fact, I made preparations for his final arrangements. And I made sure that, for every day the sun was shining, Chewie had some time out in the backyard to enjoy the weather. I had to carry him in and out of the house and sometimes he could only lie there in the grass, but I made sure he got to spend some time outside in the weather that he loved so much.

He was outside yesterday when I walked out there and discovered him having a seizure. It was the fifth one and it was pretty bad. I quickly wrapped him up in a towel, lifted him up and carried him inside. But when I came in the house, I sat right down and held Chewie against me, telling him, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” The kids were in the same room and noticed what was going on. I told them that he was having a seizure and that they needed to come over to tell Chewie that they loved him one last time. I just knew that this was his last seizure – and that it would be a fatal one. I just knew. I could tell just from how badly it was affecting him. Well, the kids came over and talked to Chewie. Each of us took turns telling Chewie we loved him. First Jesse then Jennifer. After I said “I love you, Chewie,” he gave one very large shake in my arms then he fell limp. I held him against my chest, fighting back the tears. I looked at the kids and said, “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

After a while of just sitting together right there and grieving, we began texting friends and family and letting them know that Chewie had passed. Jennifer wanted to take a picture of Chewie before we buried him and even though I did not like that idea, I respected her request. Unfortunately, try as we might, we could not get my phone cam to work. (It hasn’t worked for a while.) There was no other working camera available. I tried to ask a friend if we could use her camera just for this request but never got a reply. So there was no last picture.

The task of preparing for burial was so hard for all of us. I got Chewie’s favorite dog bed that I wanted to bury with him. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t fit into the box with the cushioning, so we took the cushions out. (I kept one, Jesse kept the other.) Jesse and I also kept a clipping of Chewie’s fur. Jennifer kept one of Chewie’s toys (it’s a toy doggy and it even kinda looks like him – she named it Chewie Jr.). Jennifer also placed a picture of each one of us on each flap of the box. At first, I DID NOT want to put Chewie into the box we were burying him in. I just sat there holding him as he was wrapped in my sweater (that he often slept on) and just held him for a long time. I didn’t want to let him go. Then I eventually found the strength to put him into the box. I broke down crying after I gently placed him inside of it then I broke down and cried again after Jennifer asked my husband to cover the box up with packing tape. I hated that request. I know, it’s not like Chewie would magically climb out of that box and be all better again, but putting the packing tape on the box was like turning him into this lifeless THING we were going to ship at the post office! It just really hit me hard. Chewie was officially dead. When we had been sitting there together with him and grieving, I kept wishing he would wake up again. But he never did. I even checked him to make sure he was dead (then Jennifer checked him and so did my husband) so I knew he was not going to wake up again. But I still hoped he would. I could not really grasp that our beloved animal friend had died. I was glad he was not suffering anymore and out of pain, but I just wished he was not gone. (A selfish thought, I know.) Then Jennifer broke down and cried right in the middle of a conversation with her dad. I held her close while she sobbed against my chest. It was just a really sad time.

Before it was time to bury Chewie, Jennifer wrote on the side of the box:

R.I.P.
Chewbacca Wilson
(Chewie)
March 1, 1993 - 2014, May 31, 4 P.M.
Human yrs = 21
Dog yrs = 168
We will love you forever and miss you always
-Jen, Jesse, Dawn, Jason

Chewbacca was buried in our backyard two hours later. He is buried next to Jennifer’s tree. Jennifer, Jesse and I took a turn saying our final goodbyes to Chewie before his grave was filled. I am happy with where his final resting place is because he often explored that part of our backyard and he is close to us, as he should be. (I am so glad the kids talked me out of burying Chewie at a local pet cemetery.) I told the kids that anytime they needed to talk to Chewie or be near him, they could go out to his grave to do that and he would hear them. I reminded them that Chewie will always be with us in spirit.

Chewie started out as my dog but he definitely became the family dog because we all just loved him so much. He was my dog, Jennifer’s dog, Jesse’s dog and Jason’s dog. He belonged to all of us. He was very special and definitely a part of our family.

Rest in peace, Chewie. We will always love you and miss you every day. Most of all, we will never forget you. Thank you for giving us 21 years of your life.