Saying Goodbye.

In human years, being a Newfie, Norway would be 96 now. He's had a long, beautiful life, and chased many squirrels and barked at many moose.

That doesn't make it a lot easier to say goodbye.

He's been having trouble with his back legs since early this spring, and we've been trying to keep pace with pain meds. This last week, the problems got worse, and we knew that his time was coming. Sunday morning, he couldn't stand up by himself, and when lifted, his front legs gave out. He got out of the house, with help, took a few staggering steps into the grass, and found his spot to lie down for good. I spent the day brushing him and telling him what a good dog he was, and saying goodbye. (And ugly crying, and explaining death to a 5-year-old.)

It's hard, seeing where he loved to lie. I keep listening for his bark. I will undoubtedly walk out 'to get him' out of habit for a while. I'm going to miss him. I'm even going to miss vacuuming up his ridiculous fur.


(Click through for a larger version)

What follows is truly gratuitous picspam:
( Cut for those reading on Dreamwidth who do not need to see seven hundred photos of my dead dog. )