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We will remember this move as the one when we learned to give up. 
~Matt gave up another position he really wanted to take this tour to Japan that he knew would be better for our family.
~I am giving up my job. Again.
~We are giving up appliances, furniture, books, clothes, toys, and craft closets.
~We are giving up our desire to be back on the West coast (for now).
 
But perhaps the hardest give this time will be our fifteen-year-old Labrador, Baby. We’ve had her since she was a three-month-old quivering bundle of pound-puppy-nerves that could flatten herself into your pants leg if she thought you were going anywhere without her. She chewed remotes and vertical blinds to self-medicate her separation anxiety. She graciously survived numerous neighborhood children, dogs, duty stations, and road trips (with her doggie ramp!). She mostly holds down the carpet now, but two vets have confirmed that she has aggressive sarcoma cancer.
 
Before Matt went underway last week, he scheduled her…her…departure? Because I am not capable of walking my dog into the vet and then carrying an empty leash and collar out, Matt will take her two weeks from today when he gets back. The kids don’t know yet, so I keep giving Baby the doggie Vicodin and watching her tail wag, feeling like a traitor. I know it is a great mercy to let her go before she is in further pain and before we leave, but I am selfish.
I think she knows it is coming. We have never fed her people food—not even leftovers. When I held out a crunchy slice of bacon from the counter Saturday morning, she cocked her head for a moment, and then she lapped it down, tail wagging. With that, we wait.

                                                                      Matt with Baby in 1997