I waken this morning with terrible heartache as I realize that I've lost another puppy. Murphy has been with me the last seven years since he was a scrappy, thin puppy on a transport to Dane rescue. I was simply a leg on this sweet, deaf babies road to salvation. His "breeder" had tried to starve him to death when she discovered he was deaf, something she caused directly due to her unethical breeding practices. She finally agreed to give him to rescue. He was so very thin. We weren't even sure he'd survive. He cried (sort of, being deaf he never really made normal dog noises aside from the inexplicable wooing that he picked up from Misha) the whole leg of the transport.

I left him with the rescuer that morning, and by the time I had driven the hour or so back to my house I knew he was mine. He was supposed to be with me. I called her and told her that when he was ready, I wanted to adopt him. She agreed and I waited long, hard weeks for him to get healthy and weigh enough to neuter. It finally came and I had this giant, floppy puppy, all legs and ears to cherish.

The years were hard for him. His beginnings and breeding left him with a nutrient-absorbtion problem that I battled, sometimes more successfully than others, his whole life. He was rail thin at the best of times, no matter what or how much he ate. Testing never yielded any results and the cycle of weight loss to the point I thought I was going to lose him was ongoing. Somehow he seemed to recover each time, thankfully. I think he cheated death many times over the years with this issue.

He was getting on in years now, especially for a Dane. Happy after we moved to Virigina, decidedly healthier in the warmer climate I still thought I had years left. The loss of Misha in early winter this year was difficult for him. All he'd ever known was another dog's company. She raised him from a puppy. He struggled but settled in, appreciating the increased, one-dog attention and was all snuggles all the time.

He was slowing down, I could see that. The last couple of months we've been fighting what I believe was a misdiagnosis on cancer. The vet told us a lump was benign, but it was growing rapidly and the weight loss was severe. He hadn't eaten in a couple days, unusual for my chowhound but yesterday morning he was ravenous. Ate his food in record time, a burden I bear heavily. Soon after breakfast I watched him, knowing the worst was at hand. He bloated. I ran him to the emergency vet, the longest twenty miles I've ever driven, but it was too late. The worst was confirmed and I lost my sweet baby to the bridge. Thankfully, I was there, holding him and touching him as he left us.

I wake this morning to an empty house for the first time in nine years. Since my first Malamute, Misha, came to me I've had multiple dogs in the house between my own and the many fosters that crossed my path over the years. I don't know what to do with myself. I got up to let him out, to feed him this morning. I expect him to be standing there rubbing his head against my side. It's more empty than I can believe. But I will always remember him and cherish the time we had.

He was absolutely the sweetest dog I've ever known. All love, all the time. A real clown. The perpetual puppy/teenager who never, ever grew into his long legs and big head. He was with me through the best and worst of times, and I am thankful. But for now, as the shock wears off, I miss him terribly. I grieve the loss of my eternal puppy. I miss his sweet sounds, his insistant need for attention and his unquestioning love and trust.

Today, sad does not begin to touch it.