Tuesday evening our little circus dog Rosie rocketed up through the heavens, taking with her the broken hearts of two humans and her canine companion. Rosie was about 17 years old, adopted as a "senior" in 2012. I'm not sure what she was doing for the first eight years of her life, how she became a stray, landed at a shelter or why no one claimed her, but their loss was our gain. For the past nine years she brought so much joy. How could a 25 pound, 13-inch Beagle leave such a spectacular hole in the ozone?

I suspected on her last "Gotcha Day" (February 27) that we very likely would not have her for Gotcha Day #10 in 2022. She was not sick until very recently, but she slowly, gracefully declined over the years, and in 2021, it was more noticeable. Bob carried her down and upstairs (she would still try to do it though, and sometimes would get impatient and beat him to it -- most recently, two weeks ago). She became increasingly finicky, although she still ate and had a good appetite almost until the end.

We went back to Sienna Sky and had her cremated yesterday. Hard, but less so than burial.  Now I am so anxious, can't sleep or eat much. She was always with me as I worked on my computer, in this third floor office. Her empty basket is behind me as I type this.

Harry is so sad. She was alpha.

The pandemic and various personal issues have prevented getting another cat since Teddy died last year, though we have done some light looking; I know we will get another dog (Harry can't be alone) but not sure when.

She was so cute and precious, good-natured, calm, quiet, independent, smart. A couple years after we had her, she revealed that she knew tricks - sit-up, both left and right paws and she entertained every morning with a full routine. She loved the outdoors, much more than Harry does.