One of my very best friends in the world died last night. It was just me and him. Everyone else traveling or gone. Huck Finn, my stomping, imperious little King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, stole cookies, started fights and chose me as favorite. A writer needs a dog like him–one who jumps in your lap when you’re feeling rejected and growls so nobody else will come near you. His heart was weak and he’d been suffering, but on Sunday he followed me out into the flower garden and rolled in the grass like old times. I’ll bury him in a shady grove on our hill top where just enough sunlight allows a soft carpet of green.