Save our sounds...

The American Folklife Center in the Library of Congress and the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage in the Smithsonian Institution are collaborating on a landmark project to preserve our audio heritage-- irreplaceable recordings of America's music and the voices of her people.

The Save America's Treasures program of the White House Millenium Council has awarded a grant of $750,000 toward this effort, recognizing these recordings as irreplacable American treasures. We have eighteen months to raise $750,000 in matching funds. We hope that everyone, citizens, musicians, and cultural advocates everywhere, will support this crucial effort.

Check out some of the sounds here.

Get your spoons out and play along with The Stanley Brothers.

Other samples here.

Lay down body

Mmmm hmmm. performed by Bertha Smith and Moving Star Hall, of Johns Island, South Carolina.

"I know moon-rise, I know star-rise,Lay dis body down. I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight, To lay dis body down. I 'll walk in de graveyard, I 'll walk through de graveyard, To lay dis body down. 'll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms ; Lay dis body down.I go to de judgment in de evenin' of de day, When I lay dis body down ; And my soul and your soul will meet in de day When I lay dis body down."

For the weary...

Shine On Me


a Negro Spiritual

Shine on Me

Intro (last line of chorus)

Chorus Shine on me. Shine on me.
Let the Light from the lighthouse shine on me.
Shine on me. Shine on me.
Let the Light from the lighthouse shine on me.

Verse 1 I heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto to Me and rest.
Lay down thou weary one lay down
Thy head upon My breast.”

Chorus (ritard at END)

Verse 2 With pitying eyes the Prince of Peace
(optional) Beheld our helpless grief
He saw, and O amazing love!
He came to our relief.

Chorus
(optional)

Oh, You Want to Know

I found out more about tired.com.

To date, he's received more than 32,000 messages. Each one is personal, but most of the people who write in—like the underslept student who started it all—fall into one of a few familiar categories.

There's the overworked parent:

Because I work two jobs and have two kids. My husband is a 13 year old trapped in a thirty year old body. My sister lives with us and doesn't work or take care of herself. My kids are great, but between my other two jobs and this house I'm exhausted. I went to school as a single mom, finished high school with my son, finished college with him. I didn't get married until I graduated college, and I can't find a good paying job without relocating. You can't relocate without a good paying job. It's a vicious circle and it's eating me alive!

The world-weary teen, the site's fastest-growing demographic:

when you're a 16 year old girl who from the looks of things, doesnt have a single pproblem, people think you're strange and maybe even high. I am tired of counselors. tired of hearing about political and economical problems the world has. tired of being expected to put family before friends. SO tired of other females no matter what the age feeling as though every other woman is competition. Tired of my best friends mother jealous of her 16 year old daughter. This, my friend, is only the very tip of the iceberg.

And, of course, the guy who's had a few too many:

I'm sick and tired of all this homophobia shit.
When are we all just going to be people? WHEN?
Also I could get more sleep at night.
I'm drunk.
Bye.

Who the hell's asking?

Are You Tired? Tell Us Why.

freaky.

I love it when I'm right

"It's NOT a manifesto and it's not revolutionary and it's not particularly moving." --jeneane sessum, Aug. 04, on Seth Godin & Kid's "Change This" 'manifestos'.

I hated this idea from the outset because I saw it as much ado about absolutely nothing--and at the same time I knew that the link hounds of blogland would swoop upon the chance to see their names in PDF.

My gripe with this project from day one has had more to do with the HYPERBOLE describing what's being done than with the format the writing is delivered in. I took issue with SethCo dubbing these downloads as "manifestos" (oh. god.) Just look at the sidebar on the site and revel in the marketing-speak. My responses, one by one, are in blue:

ChangeThis is creating a new kind of media.

No you're not. You're putting PDFs on the Web.

A form of media that uses existing tools (like PDFs, blogs and the web)...

No you're not--this is a non-searchable PDF file that we can download from your website. We've had those for a really long time. And the Web is more than "an existing tool."

...to challenge the way ideas are created and spread.

Simply: WTF?

So now, a PDF by Halley inspired a useful rant about the uselessness of PDFs by Doc, to which Seth--Mr. Listen to Your Customers--says, tough titties.

DOC: I'm in a bad mood today about people breaking the Web. One way they do it is by taking writing off the Web and offering it only as a .pdf "download".

Seth: I know they're not in HTML. There are 6 trillion other web pages to choose from if you want that.

The neat thing about the Web is that pundits without substance can't sustain themselves over the long haul. They out themselves with poor thinking and their staunchness in defending it.

Seth, we have the opportunity to move things f-o-r-w-a-r-d here. You might do well to listen to some folks who've been around. Maybe offer more than one o-p-t-i-o-n for your partakers.... Hmmmm. What a concept. Landmark even.

For my part, I believe PDF's have a place on the web. They are handy for forms, for long documents, for samples, even for books. And of course, using them is your choice.

But please don't confuse breaking the web with a groundbreaking idea.

My other thought: Seth, shut up and listen.

On Writing Well

Sometimes a reminder comes when you think you're answering a call from a creditor. Like tonight, for me.

I began my mental countdown-to-hangup: onethousandone, onethousandtwo, onethousandandCLICK, but I never got that far. A familiar voice answered a, "Hello, Jeneane," to my "Hello?"

"Ceil!!"

I had been thinking about Ceil just last week. We hadn't spoken in what, a year? Two? I'd received the yellow postcard announcing her move from Rochester to Florida, but, no surprise to Ceil, I'd lost it a week after it came. It went the way of all my important correspondence--I put it somewhere safe.

The timeliness of Ceil's call was uncanny. I'd been thinking about her because of my new business venture. You see, Ceil taught me everything I know about writing well. She would tell you, no, not true, because she's modest that way.

A professional editor, Ceil began editing me when I was 22 and just starting out in a publishing business geared to the education market. It was Ceil's job to tweak, refine, help define, and bless every piece of writing that left our amateur paws.

In those days, editing was on hard copy, and Ceil used a color scheme along with proofreader marks to indicate the difference between a must-do edit (a typo or grammatical faux-pas) and a suggested edit (poor construction, lame writing). A third color would indicate inconsistencies throughout a document--as in, pick a way and stick with it--I recommend you do it THIS way.

And she was always right.

Over the next several years, a less mechanical form of communication developed between us--as it often does between writers and editors working closely together--a vibe that allows the two to anticipate meaning and intention (on her part) and self-correct according to the editor's keen standards (on my part).

As a writer, a young writer at that time, having the eagle eye of a professional editor--not just for errors, but also for awkwardness and sensibility--was career altering. Really. For years after we stopped working together regularly, I would hear Ceil's voice, see her perfectly-shaped proofer's marks, intuitively mark my own awkward sentences in green, reconfigure them, rethink them, and usually remove them, according to her now-ingrained standards.

In my 30s, what I learned from Ceil became so much a part of my own professional writer's soul, that I stopped hearing her voice, seeing her marks, coloring my phrases. What she taught me became inherent. I carry it with me. It informs what I say even now, even here.

But Ceil is more than a top-notch editor. She is a wise woman, well-traveled through business and life, with an eye as finely tuned to people and intentions as to misdirected prose. I am so glad I know her.

I told Ceil about weblogging today. I've urged her to jump on the party bus with us. Because she has a lot to say. It's her turn to come out from behind the color-coded key and astute corrections and have her say. Exercise her own voice. Maybe even scream some.

And in the mean time, if you're looking for editing help from the best editor you've never met, email me and I'll put you in touch with Ceil.

Thank you, Ceil. For everything.

(p.s., mark this up and send it back to me, kay?) ;-)

Eye Candy

Am I the only one who thinks the C-BLO site rocks? Not just in the usual, "It's Locke's writing--so it's bound to be funny and smart as shit" kind of way, but also in the "it's wrapped up so pretty with a bow because the boy knows how to use graphix JUST RIGHT" kind of way.

CBO. Taking us to new places. Because he can.


Bonus Points: Fun games you can play with the word CBO:

Did you CBO? (as in did you "see Bo?") No, I didn't see him. Does he have any crack?

We Bo for CBO!

Get out from behind that CBO befo it falls on you.

Blogger and Yaccs

It occurred to me today--well, 40 seconds ago actually--that I've been using the same weblogging suite (fancy sounding, eh?) since 2001. Blogger for blogging. YACCS for comments.

As much as I beat on Blogger lately for being so slow, it's amazing really that I'm still here. And even though mcd says in a comment below that he hates my comment facility, I have some loyalty to YACCS because Hossein "Made Commenting Simple" (and free) for those new to Push Button Publishing before anyone else did.

I don't know Hossein, but I could always tell by the weird way YACCS was a subdomain within the Rate Your Music site, that he must like music. A lot.

Another plus, from my perspective. Plus, the guy has kept a low profile and has done nice things for people without jumping up and down about it.

Anyway, since I could actually USE blogger this evening, I thought I'd remind myself that, besides Microsoft Office and Adobe, there aren't too many software products I've liked enough to stick with 365 days a year for 3 or 4 years.

bonus points: What company did Adobe buy to get PageMaker?




Aldus.

What have They done for us lately?

Last night I had so many great posts in my satchel. Blogger beat the crap out of me by losing some and working slow as molasses. Pissed me off and took away my energy. Not good.

I was going to give you an earful about Marqui and why I am glad to see bloggers getting paid and us getting used to it and what the hell has Amazon done for us, we bloggers who've been hawking their wares and loving on them all of these years?

$20. That’s how much I’ve made as an affiliate. Affiliate nothing--they should call us losers. And what about Google's Adsense? A month later, I look at my report and find out I’ve made a buck. A frigging buck? Every pixel we type into the Blogger window adds value to Google. Thanks for understanding how much I care. MOTHERFUCK YOU.

As a reader, you’re going to read the bloggers you always read. If a blogger starts sounding like a snake oil salesman, no one’s going to be left reading except the snakes’ relatives. The beauty of the net is that it’s self-correcting. When the model’s fucked, it’s quickly either righted or outed. In the mean time, nothing wrong with getting some dough.

When I complain about the professionalization of weblogging, I don't figure money into the equation. Online, our currency is different. And the currency that ruins voice here isn't necessarily dollars. It's aligning yourself with the mass media/big business model. It's sucking up. Getting $800 to perform well isn't always whoring. Sometimes, well, whoring is whoring. I think in this space, you can remain biased and hell, untethered to affiliations you may have that pay cash, AND be happy to get paid. That's what I think.

At least Marc's counsel has resulted in Marqui's attempt to pay some real money—-rent or health insurance premium money—and according to what I’ve read, you write what you want as long as you write about their stuff regularly.

Let them up the ante for these other filthy rich friends of ours who could have thrown us a bone years ago.

To the folks at Marqui, I say: please read Gonzo Marketing so you don’t screw this up.

To the bloggers getting paid, I say: good for you.

I said it a lot better last night, but the folks at Blogger must have been off figuring out new ways for me to make a dollar, and I couldn’t get into my blog.

Read also: Shelley

Marek bedtime story

from kombinat!

Iraq and Poland

I grew up in a tradition of pacifism. I grew up in Poland, a country where two world wars stole many bedtime stories away from children who never heard the voices of their fathers. Millions died because reason turned to madness, people turned to ashes and disappeared and were heard from no more. I decided I was never going to be in a business of stealing stories from children to whom they were to be told by their fathers. Perhaps pacifism chose me because as a 10 year old boy I overheard a story an old woman whom I used to visit with my mother told how she survived Nazi concentration camp running away from Treblinka in the dead of winter, a teenage girl sleeping high up in the branches of a tree so the wolves would not attack her.

I grew up in a "NO MORE WAR" tradition that rejected violence as a solution. It is that tradition that adopted me. I chose it to sustain me. It is something that gives me hope. It's always there to breathe life into my daily existence. It is I believe my Polish Nation's shared commitment to living in peace, our social remembrance of a once charted course and our willingness to continue the work. It's a tradition I can not run away from. It is a tradition we can not run away from.

It is in the spirit of this tradition that I ask you my Polish Nation: What the fuck are you doing in IRAQ?

Dear Marek,

They will tell you it is about freedom. That they are there defending freedom. Don't believe them. Freedom was coopted in 2001. It no longer has meaning. They stomped on it. It means something else now. It's New Hampshire on steroids. Live free or die, motherfucker. Free. Born Free, as free as the wind blows, as free as the medical care will be that covers your two bloody stumps with bandages. Born free to follow your heart as it's blown out of your chest. Yah. They'll use that word. A lot.

Don't listen to them. They stole your freedom word.

You keep talking. Use all the other words you can.

Frank Wrote the Book on Why We Blog

Good stuff from the Larry King Live of blogland.

Tom: To continue to hold out hope that something of a different spirit could animate what is, at the moment, a less than inspiring prospect? There’s a very long pan used by Fellini in Satyricon, I think, which moved across a giant apartment complex in ancient Rome, from one home to the next, each living room filled with screaming Romans, a vast columbarial hive of vociferousness whose apex of roaring expressivity was a self-canceling volume of amplitude resolving itself into an indecipherable hum.

Maybe it can be more

-----------

Frank,
I am sorry I can’t talk to you right now. I have two hot babes on my lap and they are making me very busy. I am showing them your blog and they just love it.

Marek J

------------

Read it. This compendium needs to join wikipedia if it hasn't.

Blogger's Latest Feature: Blog Lots at Once

Today Blogger released its newest feature, BLO - Blog Lots at Once. The new feature requires that you post all of your blogging for the month at one time. Not only does this save time, but it floods news aggregators making you the HOT blogger you've always dreamed of being.

When asked what she thinks of the BLO feature, blogger Jeneane Sessum said the new functionality was sorely needed. "The way I see it, you might as well post all of your writing for the whole year once you get into Blogger, BECAUSE IT'S SO FUCKING SLOW LATELY THAT YOU HAVE TO WRITE EVERYTHING YOU CAN THINK OF OR JUST PLAIN FORGET IT. FORGET YOU EVER KNEW HOW TO WRITE. FORGET BLOGGING. FORGET YOUR FLEEETING THOUGHTS. EITHER USE THE BLO FEATURE OR GIVE THE FUCK UP!"

Then she slammed her laptop closed.

Yikes.

You just call out my name, you shithead...

Ken Camp has a great post about what makes a real friend... For your reading pleasure, I present it to you:

1. When you are sad - I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

2. When you are blue - I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3. When you smile - I will know you finally got laid.

4. When you are scared - I will rag on you about it every chance I get.

5. When you are worried - I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to quit whining.

6. When you are confused - I will use little words.

7. When you are sick - Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.

8. When you fall - I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

This is my oath...I pledge it till the end. Why? You may ask. Because you are my friend.

Send this to 10 of your closest friends, then get depressed because you can only think of two and one of them isn't speaking to you right now anyway.

Remember: A good friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a body. Let me know if I ever need to bring a shovel.

;-)

Onward Chris and Soldiers...

So HE's been blogging over here, as Chief Blogging Officer, which means I believe that he is CBO for Highbeam. Well COOL! If it weren't for technorati and spammers, I wouldn't know anything at all.

But I do know about highbeam thanks to C-BO, and I can say that it has saved my ass looking up some arcane items this past week that I'd like to write about as soon as I figure out how to use the blog this item button.

I have an email into the CBO about it. I hear you don't even have to go through his receptionist if you call his office. He answers the phone himself--right from his home office couch.

Technology. It's so cool.

Blogger's Slow Again...

And it's pissing me off.

Take Christianity Back from the Right

To reclaim language, to take back its meaning from those who would distort it, is to reclaim power. Reclaim Christianity now.

I am a Christian, too
It's time to take religion back from the haters, killers and temple money-changers
BY JOHN F. SUGG

There's a bit of schoolin' that God-fearing folks in Cobb County and the rest of the nation should pay heed to as they cheer the creationist team in a federal lawsuit heard last week.

The legal spat, over a warning plastered in Cobb schools' biology texts that evolution is merely a "theory" and not a "fact," has the world press in a tizzy now that evangelicals are perceived as political 900-pound gorillas (probably not a great metaphor when talking about evolution).

Thank God (so to speak) for Cobb County, always good for when scribes need a bit of bizarre to substitute for news.

Still, there is a "gol darn, I didn't know that!" lesson hidden in the Cobb evolution brouhaha, one that should be important to every Christian. It's a gem from the earlier "monkey" trial, the 1925 drama that starred teacher John Scopes, who challenged Tennessee's anti-evolution statute. The advocate for the religious side was William Jennings Bryan, one of the great men of principle in American history.

But, oh, heavens, Bryan was a died-in-the-wool liberal. He generally was described as a "populist," but in the parlance of the late 19th century, that meant liberal. Bryan volunteered in the Spanish-American War; that experience turned him into a fervent pacifist bitterly opposed to the nascent American imperialism. As Woodrow Wilson's secretary of state, he jawboned the 30 leading world powers to agree to a one-year cooling-off period before going to war -- no pre-emptive slaughter for Bryan.

Dubbed "the Great Commoner," he castigated the capitalists as enemies of common folk. Among his most ardent allies in a 1896 presidential bid was American socialist leader Eugene V. Debs.

In short, Bryan was a man who would have earned the scorn of Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh and Trent Lott. If he was reincarnated and ran today for a U.S. Senate seat in Georgia, Saxby Chambliss would air commercials putting Bryan's mug alongside Saddam's and Osama's -- just as he did to Max Cleland.

But hold on a minute. Bryan also was a fundamentalist Christian. At the Scopes trial, he thundered, "I believe everything in the Bible should be accepted as it is given there." He was born again, he was an evangelical.

The nation, especially the South, bestowed great reverence on Bryan, who died a few months after the Scopes trial. Country and western balladeer Andrew Jenkins, a Georgia boy, sang these words in tribute: "Oh, who will go and end this fight, oh, who will be the man?/To face the learned and mighty foe, and for the Bible stand?"

Let's wind forward 79 years. Bob Jones III is president of the racist Bob Jones University in Greenville, a favorite haunt of George Bush. Jones, a storm trooper of the religious reich-wing vanguard that claims ownership of Bush, sternly admonished the president after the election, "You owe the liberals nothing. They despise you because they despise your Christ." Ah, I get it. Bush & Co. own Christ.

The letter also underscores the message hammered home so successfully by the GOP during the recent campaign: Liberals despise Christ.That's a lie.

The example of William Jennings Bryan -- and millions of others -- makes clear that ultra-conservatives don't have an exclusive claim on Christ. It's time for Christians to start giving witness to that fact.

I've warmed you up with a little literary napalm. But what I'm going to write next isn't easy. It's the sort of thing journalists aren't comfortable acknowledging. Here it goes ...

I testify that I am a Christian. I have been ever since I came forward at a Billy Graham revival when I was 8 years old. I later fell from grace and had a lot of dark years I'll have to account for on Judgment Day. My life did not turn around until, 14 years ago, I got down on my knees and prayed. That's something I do every day now. I prefer small churches to the show palaces; Christ said to pray in private. I've felt called to be a minister, but figure I'd get to do less preaching than with this gig.

I don't pay heed to the false prophets such as Pat Robertson and Tim LaHaye of the Left Behind books because Christ said to beware of charlatans claiming to know when He is coming again.

The "rapture" isn't in the Bible, so it's not in my theology. I find it hard to conceive of Jesus returning to save a few smug Pharisees such as Jerry Falwell while brutally slaying billions of my brothers and sisters. The heaven I believe in has ample room for all men and women of all faiths who seek God and try to live good lives.

In the Book of Matthew, Jesus said, "Not everyone who saith 'Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father ... ." He told us his Father's will was to be meek; to be peacemakers; to take care of the weak, the poor, the afflicted; to sheathe the sword.

I believe there is truth in every word of the Bible, but as Bryan said during the Scopes trial, "Some of the Bible is given illustratively." I also believe there is truth in other faiths' scriptures, and I study them, too.

All Americans are invested in the debate over "values." It's time for Christians to take back our religion from people who have commandeered it simply to squeeze political advantage.

I believe the Ten Commandments have more impact if they are carved on our hearts than if they are hung in government buildings. I believe our leaders have broken one of those commandments by bearing false witness in concocting lies out of whole cloth that led us into war. I believe that "elective" war is another word for murder, and war to grab other peoples' oil is coveting and theft -- more broken commandments.

More...

Thanks to Craig for the pointer.

Watching...

Happened upon Elton while clicking through newly-installed cable TV. Living the high life over here.

Burn Down the Mission -- currently playing. Tune in. You already missed Take Me to the Pilot. Hurry!



Some people say they are Elton John fans. I'll show you my original liner notes from Captain Fantastic.

Remembering Diva Today

I remember writing this last year when Diva was almost 13. She was so darn cute.

I keep hearing her today. "Diva, quit that bark.... oh."

Thanks for all of your kind words. We're really okay today. I cleaned up the dining room, washed out her dishes, vacuumed the downstairs, watched the vacuum take away her stray hairs a clump at a time, swollowed the lump in my throat, smiled, knowing her hair will never all be gone. She was just too fuzzy.

This is the first animal we've had who died at home of old age. Something nice about it. She curled up on her favorite spot and took a long nap. I said to Tom, she got it right.

Bando is lost though. He's nearly 4 now and has never spent a day without his surrogate mother. We got him at the pound when he was 8 weeks old. We figured Diva could teach him some things. She was patient with him. He's not the smartest biscuit in the box, but he loved his Diva.

Bando howled last night. He stands at the gate and yips like a puppy. After the holiday, I told Jenna, we'll get him cleaned up. Let him spend some more time inside. I got him a chew toy today to keep him busy. He was happy to see that we hadn't disappeared too.

Bando was the one who showed George where she was. He stayed by her side while George checked her out. He watched over her until we took her away.

Bando grew up yesterday.

I feel worse for him.

Oh, Diva.

George always tells people I stole her. He says, "She saw that puppy in someone's yard that day and she just took her. She stole that dog. Some little boy is still crying, 'mommy, my puppy's gone!'"

It wasn't like that. Two blocks from the Rochester public market, where quite a few dogs roam free looking for scraps from the open air market, I saw the most adorable fuzzy tiny puppy out in the rain, drenched, the cold Rochester spring rain pounding the sidewalk, this poor little dog in obvious intestinal distress.

I got out of my car, picked her up, oh dear, oh my, she was so sweet, so I naturally walked the neighborhood, up and down both sides of the street, "Hello? Is this anyone's puppy?" I came upon one man who lived on the street, but he said he'd never seen the puppy.

Crap.

I tried to leave her on the sidewalk and go on my way. I got back in my car. We didn't need a puppy.

But she stayed so close to my car that I couldn't see her and didn't dare pull away from the curb for fear of running her over.

Oh hell.

Now what?

I got out and took her.

I took that sweet puppy right away from that lonely street and directly to our vet, who said she was just 7 or 8 weeks old, and from her paws and state of health, she'd most likely been living outside on the streets. He said that I'd done a good deed. Of course, he knew me. What else was he going to say?

For all his blustering about my criminal intent, George fell in love with her when he came back from Boston and saw her face, this little black-and-brown-fuzzball-shepherd-mix-good-old-fashioned-big-hearted mutt.

We named her Diva. She was a sweet and dainty doll.

Diva has seen us through so many changes; she watched me go through my late 20s, 30s, and early 40s. That's a long road to travel together.

Two weeks ago we took Diva to the vet to get her skin, hearing and general health checked. The vet assured us that given her age, she was hanging in there pretty well. We got some medicine for her skin problems--Diva, the queen of hot spots. He advised us to let her keep on going, since she was happy and not in any serious pain. We were prepared to say goodbye that day. But we took his advice and brought her home. She did well on the medicine and her skin cleared up.

Last night Diva didn't come in for dinner. This wasn't so unusual for her the last few months. More than once I had to hunt her down outside. I'd walk up to her, see her curled up on an old dog bed we have out back. I'd suck in my breath, thinking, "Oh no, she's dead." And I'd say, "Diva? DIVA?" Her head would pop up and she'd look at me over her shoulder as if to say, "Oh you! Is it time to eat already?"

She'd gone mostly deaf, and it usually took me slapping the house or going down the back steps to get her attention to come on up the deck for supper.

This morning George went out to get her. Her dinner from last night was still waiting. I heard him put on his boots and go out the door to find her.

He found her under our bedroom window.

She was curled up under the big overhang--her favorite cool and dry place in the yard.

This time when he called her name, she didn't look up over her shoulder. She didn't raise her ears or wag her tail.

Her soft nose was tucked into her paws, her eyes closed, just as she napped nearly every day for just shy of 14 years.

From what we can tell, she took her last breath sometime early this morning.

Sweet Diva.

Our good good girl.

I'm sorry I wasn't with you last night, or there to pat your head this morning.

But I am glad that I stole you when you were a pup. And I'm honored to have had you by my side for all of these years.

goodbye, girl.