Lula died Saturday morning at 7:30 am on the couch. I watched her take her last breath. My daughter slept while it happened. I woke her shortly after. I didn't know quite what to do other than sob into my hands. My daughter's visceral reaction was to be with Lula, even though she had passed. Determined to hold her warmth, touch her soft fur, and whisper to any life Lula had left; she kept vigil without caution. When I could form a coherent sentence I told her that she eased Lula into passing in a way that most people could not do. I couldn't do it. I was already lost in my own grief. Lula was only seven. She was the happiest and funniest of dogs. She was a teacup chihuahua, minus the chihuahua attitude. We upcycled her at eighteen months from a dog hoarder in Washington. She was scared of us at first, but once she gained confidence, she loved to cuddle and and jester for her family. When we moved down to California, she played off leash extensively for the first time. S...