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2005-11-05 - 3:17 p.m. Who will run to kiss me when I sneeze? Every morning you'd somehow sense seconds before the alarm would be set to go off. You would stand by my bed, stare into my face, and thump your tail. I'd turn off the impending annoyance of the alarm and stroke your big head instead. What a gentle way to wake up! When I'd leave for work you'd stay back a bit and hang your nose and look forlorn. Before the door would close behind me, you'd dash over and stare up at me, but would turn your face aside if I tried to touch you or bend to kiss you, and look dejected. You'd know it all before even asked. You'd read my thoughts. OK, let's go around the corner now for coffee. It's time to make a run to the liquor store, isn't it? I'll go with you to sit perfectly patiently by your side until your Chinese food is all packed and ready to carry home. You seem sad: let's walk by the river tonight. You're not feeling well; I'll go lie down...dinner can wait. When the WTC towers fell and the city went into lockdown, and I couldn't get back to you until 27 hours later, you waited for me then...no food, no water, and you held everything in and did not soil the apartment. How did you DO that? You trusted I would do everything I could to get back to you, and you waited faithfully for that key in the lock. When I'd sneeze, you'd come bumbling and running from even a deep sleep, stare into my eyes, do a big sigh, and kiss my nose, very concerned. I'd laugh and tell you I was alright. Who will run to kiss me now when I sneeze? Yesterday at only eight years old RexDog died. His body suddenly swelled up, he could not lie down or sleep; we walked slowly, sluggishly, the six blocks to the vet. I told him on the way, Two more blocks; you'll be alright...One more block; you'll be alright. The vet bent down to him, stood up and said, This dog is seriously, fatally ill. Two simultaneous conditions will kill him now, at any moment. Spleen cancer has filled his body with blood and fluids, and he has extreme heart arythmia and heart failure. I was - in shock. I called Peter and he was there in an hour. "Peter's coming over!" were the three happiest words Rex loved to hear. The man from the crematorium waited outside in his black van. The first injection, a sedative, sent the big dog's head thrashing, his tongue falling out. The second took so long - his heart was racing so hard to try and circulate the liquid in his blood. After all, his heart was actually breaking. I laid my face next to his, stroked his black velvet ear, and whispered, "A good life - plenty of fun runs through the woods!" Rex died. Peter quietly took my hand on the walk home.