“Gotham?” I place a hand on my Basset Hound’s belly. Feeling for breath, but his body isn’t rising or falling. “Gotham?” My voice tightens. I just took him for a walk this morning. At 6 a.m.—and he was slow, really slow, but he ate his kibble. He was okay. “Gotham? Come on, buddy.” I nudge him, but he’s not moving. He’s gone. I know he’s gone. I prepared for this. I knew he could die soon, and I thought that knowledge would lessen the grief—but God, something fists my lungs. I swallow hard, and I think, thank God it was me.
AND THEN THIS!!!! Tini and Alaina are on my shit list for not warning me about this
