Dear Diary,
I’m not typing these words with anything resembling energy. That’s just how it is somedays, everything is stuck, including my thoughts.
We have an old dog who appears to be entering his final phase. With dogs you get an accelerated preview of what your own downward slope to oblivion might look like. It’s not always pretty. Today I gave him a bath in the utility sink, which worked well. I was able to clean off his old dog smell for at least a few days. I’m keeping his appetite up with home-made turkey stock mixed in his kibble. A little canned pumpkin helps keep diarrhea away.
He is supposed to be a Yorkie/Chihuahua mix. He’s definitely a puppy mill dog. My wife picked him up for too much money in 2003 when we moved to Juneau, Alaska. We named him Pico because of his small size, though like many hybrids he grew to be larger than expected (18 lbs or so). He spent the prime of his life with a great back yard, going on hikes in the woods, and running on various beaches. Juneau was a mostly off-leash sort of town, so he was able to run free much of the time.
Here he is in better times:
Here In Duluth 