Osa, you get to go

You've probably been expecting a post about our turkey hunting trip for weeks now.  I apologize, it's coming.  I have *still* been tired and--though less nauseas--vomiting more frequently.  This is not what I was intending to post tonight.  But sometimes, life chooses for us and we go with it.  

:: I rescued Osa from the pound in 2000.  We had one night home and by the second night we were tent partners.  She rode shotgun and slept in my sleeping bag.  Osa became badly epileptic at 2 and has since been a high-maintenance pain-in-the-ass.  And yet always, thoroughly, undeniably, loved.  She has been the best dog.

Osa started her life with me as a backpacker and when I look back through the photos of our life together, I realize that she has been more places and seen more things than your average American, let alone your average dog.  The words she's always perked her ears for: "Osa, you get to go!"   

Except a handful of trips overseas, Osa and I have gone everywhere together.  

Yet despite all our rugged outdoor adventures, Osa has always been soft, goofy, clumsy and a touch lazy.  It's the part of her that's kept us laughing.  

  

And she's hung in there through our greatest adventure of all: 

:: Today, Osa took her last trip.  We laid a bouquet of balsamroot flowers on her chest and whispered in her ear,  It's okay.  You get to go.  You get to go.

I think we gave her a good life.  And I know we loved the hell out of her.

See you on the other side, old girl.