Wilbur
Wilba-Loo. Wilba-Dee. Wilba-Lee. The first time Wilbur sang for his supper, I was a goner. While my four ridiculously eager Labradors ran in circles, whined annoyingly, and raced from room to room in anticipation of the moment they’d hear the kibble hit the stainless steel bowl, Wilbur stood calmly in the middle of the den, utterly still, and lifting his head, trilled his blessing on the meal to come! He sounded like a bird, a bird with a slight growl. From there, he charmed his way into everyone’s heart, fervently wagging his entire body, and even managed to worm his way into a coveted spot on the couch. Dogs aren’t allowed on the furniture. Weren’t allowed on the furniture. He stopped singing for his supper a few weeks before the moment he was diagnosed with cancer and immediately allowed to die peacefully. Thanks to TARA, that moment took place only after a long, secure night in front of the fire and a last supper of warm turkey pot pie, saved from Thanksgiving leftovers - that, and four fun-filled months being a farm dog. We all love you, Wilbur, and your big ol’ head. It matches your big ol’ soul-searching eyes.