Her name is Lyra and she is a cheagle, or a beagle/chiuhuau mix. She is 11 weeks old and pretty tiny. She is supposed to grow to 15 to 20 pounds. Somehow I doubt it! But here she is. 

 We buried my dad today.  The funeral mass was beautiful. The priest, who has been a family friend for years, did a really wonderful job at capturing my father's life and spirit.  It's been a difficult and extraordinarily enlightening week.  I met so many people who knew my dad from various times in his life, all who told us how kind and wonderful and lovely of a man he was.

I'm really going to miss him. I was so fortunate to have him for as many years I did.  He lived all of his 71 years to the best of his ability. Although we didn't have much money, he somehow made sure all of us went to private Catholic schools and that our Christmas and other holidays were plentiful with presents and food.  I remember one time when he was out of work for three years.  I was 11 at the time and he was a laborer. He hurt his back and he only got $100 a month on which to raise our family of 8.  Looking back today I don't know how he did it  -- my mother didn't work at the time -- or how he didn't lose it.  But we got through it and at the end he was able to take my grandfather's ticket at the local longshore union where he finally got a decent wage.  But he never complained, always worked hard and never took the easy way out.

It was three years ago in October that he was diagnosed with stage 4 prostate cancer. I had the privilege of taking him to every one of his doctor's appointments at the hospital where  I work. We could not have asked for a better team of caregivers, all of whom adored him because he was so irreverent and open.  Plus they liked him since he always had a kind word for everyone.  

All of us were with him when he died last Saturday. We knew the time was coming, but the hospice nurse had given us a prescription for morphine to administer along with adavan for the anxiety. Thursday and Friday were awful -- he was screaming in his sleep, calling out for long-dead relatives, singing, telling my mother how pretty she was -- all generally strange utterings.  In the end, all of us, my mother, me and all six of my siblings, formed a prayer circle around him. My cousins were there as well.  Just as our priest completed the Sacrament of the Sick, my father died.  It was peaceful and gentle and a very quiet and lovely death.  We witnessed something was so amazing that I still can't wrap my head around it.

So now we go on with life without him.  I miss him terribly.  And Thanksgiving will be awful since next to his family, fishing and hunting, my father's absolute favorite pasttime was eating and cooking. Especially eating.

I love you dad.  Goodnight and rest in the peace you so very much deserve.