I got up this morning and walked in and saw her empty crate.
Oy.
I knew I'd feel bad, but I didn't know I'd feel THIS bad. Oh, how I grew to love that little round head.
Yesterday I took Violet to the fire station, where she is going to live forever. I refuse to write "furever home." If I were an animal and someone told me I was going to a "furever home" I would go Pit on them. Even if I were a Persian.
A ton of firefighters showed up at the station to meet her. They'd already gotten her a little bed, and some chewies, and a toy pig. And the world's largest bowls, which she ate out of even though I'd just fed her on the way over.
Everyone was standing around her and one of them said, "Who's your daddy? You got 25 of them!" Everybody laughed.
But there did seem to be one guy she gravitated to more than the others. And lucky for her, he's the guy who lives there all the time, and her little bed is right next to his. She's gonna be PISSED about giving up her firearms.
It was on the news last night, the story of her going to live with the firemen, and they said they were going to teach her to stop, drop and roll so she can demonstrate it to classrooms. "And, she'll know what to do if she ever catches on fire," said helpful Ned. Who has had to watch me mope.
You can click on this to see it better. Also, am seriously considering adding roiling flames to my blog design. What say you? Relaxing.
So. I know she'll be loved and cared for. By many burly men. Who seem to favor pink. I know she'll have a good life.
I just wish I didn't miss her so much. And that she hadn't watched me drive away the whole way out of the lot.
But I know I did the right thing, and that this will hurt less eventually. And I have an open invitation to stop by any time. Hang at the firehouse. Maybe they'll let me slide down the pole. So to speak.
Carry on.
