I'm writing this post on reflection of what happens to be the worst week of my life. If you know me personally then you'll probably have guessed what this is about, but for those of you who don't know why, you're about to find out.
Eleven years and six months ago, on a sunny June morning, I had in my lap a tiny puppy sitting in a bowl, on his way to his new home for the first time. His ears were too big for his body and he was restless as each green light disturbed his attempt to sleep. This morning, on a rainy December day, that same puppy, who grew into his ears and could sleep through
a hurricane returned home for the final time, in a teeny box with his name written on it.
