Sasha

I have an old friend named Sasha who was the first dog I ever fostered - I took care of her while her owner was dying so that her family could take care of her owner and not have to worry about where Sasha was and whether she was in the way or getting her daily walks in. She was a good and very typical old dog - really liked her food, relished being right in the middle of the bed, liked to give kisses, and had a complete look of joy when she got to run.

Sasha is sixteen now and had developed huge tumours on her leg - so it's a miracle really that she's still alive.

Today she was put to sleep. I'm sure she's probably pretty happy that she's gotten to finally go the same place where her owner is now. She was a good dog, and sixteen years is a pretty good age for a dog, so you really can't ask for too much more than that. I am very grateful that I got a couple minutes to say goodbye to her last night and give her as much liver as she wanted - and she wanted as much as I was willing to give her. Which was quite a bit. She's having diarhea right now in heaven, I'd imagine.