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[Tuna was our Samoyed rescue dog, who died of internal injuries a year after being hit by a car] We carried her out on a oaken bier gilt with gold, painted in red, drawn by five horses and—no, instead We carried her out on black velvet strung over two poles, accompanied by minstrels playing solemn dirge. No, we carried her out in our arms, blood-soaked, face frozen in a scream, and laid her in a wheelbarrow. No, she ran out, danced lightly down the steps, smiled back at us one last time and was gone. The day Tuna died—her given name was Moonglow but who the hell wants to be called Moonglow?—was mid-winter, but, unwontedly, unexpectedly, a day above freezing. We wheeled her—four eunuch slaves carried her high in her palanquin— the carriage-horses neighed and stamped their feet in the cold—Tuna ran happily up to the long grass by the vegetable garden and waited for us to reach her, slowly pushing the garden wagon through the snow, carrying shovels. The day that Tuna died it

Only one more page- One more chapter. Dawn seeps through The curtains too soon.