A few weeks before Willie died, he stayed at our house for few days. My parents travel a lot, and Willie was always welcome here, even as things started to wind down. He had been sick for some time, and it was getting more difficult to have him over. His accidents made it impossible to let him on the carpet or on the couch, and unlike at his house, he didn't know have his dog door to try to get outside. We kept him confined, for the most part, to the kitchen, where the tile made it possible to disinfect any evidence of accidents.

That last time, when we went to pick him up, Chris ran inside my parents house to grab Willie. It was clear that he needed to go outside, but that he hadn't felt like struggling through his doggie door. As soon as Chris opened the back door to let him out, he moved excitedly towards it, relieved, and then slipped, landed on his tummy, and peed all over himself. I was in the car, but I know I married a good man because he came out so worried about my dog-- not disgusted, as most people, including myself, might have been. We both understood that night that things weren't getting better for Willie, that the time had come for us to prepare to say goodbye.

We wrapped him in a towel so we wouldn't have to touch his urine-soaked fur, and I held him in my lap as we made the short trip home. I carried him upstairs, knowing that it would be the last time I bathed my sweet puppy, and I filled up the tub with perfectly warm water in our big master bath. His hair had started thinning over the last year, and his once thick, luxurious curls had become sparse and wiry. A couple scabs that he wouldn't leave alone had left matted chunks of dried blood that wouldn't rinse clean. And so I decided to be a grown up, and I decided to deal with it.

It was the best bath I had ever given Willie, and he sparkled. But unlike before, when we would let Willie run wild around the house till he was dry, I knew his broken little body couldn't stay warm enough on his own, and I held him as I blew him dry, crying just a little bit while remembering all our good times. I knew that night would be my last opportunity to pamper Willie, and I'm so glad I took it. I think it was about two weeks later that it was finally decided that Willie had struggled long enough, and it was time for us to let him go.

Willie would have turned 14 yesterday. He lived a life most dogs would envy: he had a jungle for a backyard, steak scraps way more often than was healthy, and a family who spent several years of his life fighting over who got to cuddle with him. Thirteen years isn't too shabby for a little fluff ball, but I sure do miss him.

I'm supposed to live in a big City. Not like Las Vegas, which I suppose could be considered a big city in terms of population or size. No, a city with a Capital C. The City. Give me Boston, New York, San Francisco. Suburban life just isn't cutting it for me.

I want to push my stroller down the sidewalk, duck into a corner bakery and enjoy a buttery pain au chocolat whenever the craving strikes.

It would also be nice to take Claire to museums instead of Target.

You'd have to be living under a rock to not know it snowed in Vegas... here's Claire and Penne's fifteen minute adventure in the snow.