All dogs go to heaven

After 12.5 years, the day I'd been dreading finally came yesterday -- I had to let my "first baby" go. She was hanging on physically, but mentally we'd seen a downward spiral, with her days and nights confused. She couldn't sleep when she needed to and couldn't hear very well.

This past week, she just seemed so sad. I made the appointment for yesterday morning so my mom could go with me, and I spent three nights on the family room couch with the dog, never sleeping more than about 15 minutes at a time before she would want in or out.

Even though I had cats before I got her, Josie (named because I had Josie & the Pussycats) was my first baby, the first time I felt really needed. She gave me a reason to get up each day, something to come home to, at a time when my personal life pretty much sucked. I tell people she kept me from throwing myself in front of a bus.

We had great adventures. We hung out at the beach in New England, a pale-skinned mama and her too-hot fuzzy sled dog. We made the 900-mile journey by van back to the Midwest, with her refusing to pee the entire way. She became the expert bunny killer in our old neighborhood -- I'm convinced there's still a chalk outline from the time DH found just ears and a tail. Dumb bunny!

She even tolerated the arrival of Who I, followed too soo for her liking by Whos II and III. Once she figured out they were a food source, she was OK with them. I'm sure she ate her weight in macaroni and cheese and stolen chicken nuggets in the last three years.

She had the softest ears and most beautiful white eyelashes. She sang -- "ah-roo-roo-roo" -- for treats, our own fuzzy opera gal. And she gave the absolute best kisses.

In the end, she let me know when she was ready. I'm grateful I was able to listen to her. Keeping her going would have been so selfish.

We told our big girls that Josie was going to heaven, and why. We cried a lot and tried to explain it in terms a 4-year-old could understand. It was especially important for DD#2, who has already experienced so much loss in her life, to know that you CAN say goodbye, that it's OK to be sad.

And bless her heart, while I was at the vet, Who II drew me a picture that now sits on the refrigerator, right next to a photo of Josie as a puppy.

It's a dog with angel wings.

Dire conditions

News accounts of the winter storms that have crippled China have failed to mention an area very close to my heart -- the conditions in the orphanages. But through a couple of fantastic organizations that help the children still waiting for families, the adoption community has gotten a pretty clear picture of how things are going.

It's grim.

Many orphanages have no heat and can't afford coal, which has skyrocketed. They're running out of disposable diapers. Food supplies are dwindling, and at least one city I've read about is rationing noodles to four packs per family. And, especially in the southern provinces, which are ill-equipped to deal with prolonged cold, it's a monumental challenge just to keep the children warm.

There has been no word about my daughters' two orphanages. Both are in southern provinces heavily affected by the snow, so I can only assume they are struggling. Baby Who's orphanage, in particular, is a poor one.

My children are safe and sound in their beds tonight, tucked under blankets with full bellies and parents who love them more than life itself. But there are children suffering. There are parents waiting to travel, not able to find out if the children whose pictures they've held for weeks are OK.

I am grateful to organizations like Half the Sky and Our Chinese Daughters Foundation, which are trying heroically to get supplies to those in need. I'm humbled by the outpouring from the adoptive community, which just rallied to help Love Without Boundaries win a $50,000 Facebook charitable challenge to perform life-saving surgery on Chinese orphans with heart conditions and is now stepping up in droves to help children most will never meet.

I'm proud to be part of this community. And I'm off to do my part.