Butch died a week ago today. I found him lying on the floor in the kitchen, still alive. His big eyes looking up at me. He was on his side, sprawled out like he just stopped to get a break. I came over to see how he was, and it was clear something was wrong. He couldn’t open his mouth, and he seemed weak and slow to respond. I sat with him, trying to comform him on the floor. He recovered for awhile, but while at the vet had a heart attack and we put him to sleep.

Butch was at my feet as much of this book was written. Good dog Butch – we’ll miss you.