24 Hours

24 hours ago my life was completely different.

24 hours ago I was almost happy.

24 hours ago I didn't know that my life was about to take a drastic turn.

24 hours ago I was sitting on the couch, watching tv, waiting for the US friendly with Mexico to start, with Princess curled up on my legs, just as she did almost every single time I sat on the couch. If I was sitting, she was next to me.

24 hours ago I didn't know that Princess would only be with me for four more hours.

23 hours ago Princess threw up, which isn't exactly abnormal for dogs. She didn't seem to be breathing very well, though, so I woke my parents up for backup. She settled down, though, and got back on the couch with me, cuddled up a little closer than normal. I knew she wasn't feeling well, but I thought it would pass. My parents went back to bed, thinking she was ok-ish.

I went to bed after the soccer match was over. Princess wouldn't get up because she was sick, so I carried her little self to bed. I've done that a million times. I've carried her all over the place because she's so stubborn, but she's only 50 pounds and easy to carry.

She snuggled in really close, like she does when I'm upset or she's upset. She was still having trouble breathing, but only sometimes. I wasn't sleeping because I was listening for her in case she needed me.

She needed me. I just couldn't do anything to help her.

An hour after we went to bed, Princess started throwing up again, or trying to. She wasn't able to sit up. She was choking, but seemed, I don't know, sort of paralyzed. I tried to help her up, so she wouldn't choke, but she was limp. She couldn't support herself. And then she had what seemed like a seizure.

And then it was over.

I lost her. I lost her. I lost the only reason I've had to be happy in 4.5 months. I lost the only reason I get out of bed some days. I lost the most precious little girl who threw herself at me every time I walked in the door, who ran into the room looking for me every time she came in from going outside, who would sleep on her back with her tongue hanging out, who snored louder than an old man, who insisted on a belly rub every night before going out for the last time and before going to bed, who would sit like a little meerkat with her paws in my hands for as long as I would sit on the floor with her.

I lost my little dog who had the saddest eyes, who mourned her brother's death for months, who was so much like Dewey that it is like losing him all over again.

I haven't recovered from Dewey. I was only surviving because of Princess. Now she's gone, too. There is no dog pushing their way through two other dogs to get to me when I walk in the door. There is no dog that looks for me first thing when they wake up. There is no dog curled up on my lap. There is no dog to sleep in my bed.

For the first time in over 20 years, I don't have a dog.

I don't have a dog who sleeps on me.

I don't have a dog who wants to be as close as possible to me.

I don't have a dog who thinks my only crime is not paying them constant attention.

I don't have a dog who puts me above everyone else in the world.

I don't have a dog.

A Year in Review

I hate 2013. 

There, I said it. It's the end of the year and I'm not at all sorry to see it go. It's been the worst year of my life.

Let's look at my resolutions for the year, shall we? First up, finish my dissertation. Nope. Not even close on that one. Next up, find a job or post-doc. What is the point? I'm not even close to finishing, so why waste my time on the job search? Then there was the goal of reading 52 new books this year. Umm...I think I read ten or twelve. Maybe. I did read Pride and Prejudice twice (again). Reading for pleasure got preempted by the dissertation and stress and worrying over Dewey. Finally, there was the ever-lofty "take better care of myself" goal. Ha. I did yoga maybe twice this year, but I did lose thirty pounds. Then Dewey got sick and I ate my feelings the past three months because it was better than crying constantly, but I did that, too. I told you I was bad at resolutions. Maybe 2014 will be better resolution-wise.

I'm trying to pinpoint what exactly was so horrible about this year and I don't think it was any one thing necessarily, but a compilation of a whole lot of crap. 

Certainly, this wasn't a great year for teaching. Only teaching one class over the winter semester was terrible. It wrecked all the progress I'd made on my giant pile of grad school debt and seems to have cost me my best friend because I couldn't afford to go to her wedding in the Bahamas. We haven't talked since June and, before that, it was pretty strained, although I thought it was getting better. Then she didn't call or even text me for birthday, so I guess it was more strained than I realized. This semester was a really rough semester for teaching. I had one class that was great - good students (some not so good, too), good chemistry - and one class that started horribly, but picked up towards the end for some of the students. I just think 8:00 classes shouldn't exist. Trying to get this class to do their work, much less talk about it, was worse than pulling teeth. The number of students that failed the class is shocking, but it's impossible to pass them when they didn't do the three major assignments. Accepting that was difficult.

More difficult was losing three dogs this year. Winnie, technically my uncle's dog, but she grew up at my parents' house, with Dewey when they were puppies. She was Dewey's girlfriend and mother to the adorable duo of Princess and Tank. Then we lost Tank the day before my birthday. I thought that was horrendous, but I wasn't in any way, shape, or form prepared for what was to come - saying goodbye to Dewey. I dreaded it for years, since his first diagnosis with cancer, but November 25th was the worst day ever. Or maybe it was November 26th, when I woke up without him for the first time. 

I know he is not in pain anymore and that's what matters and I know that it gets easier over time, but living without him is hard. Every day there has been something that has reminded me of him, of how much my life revolved around him. It's been four weeks and there hasn't been a day that I haven't looked for him or called for him or wanted to hug him. I also realize I sound like a lunatic, but I'm hoping you won't judge. It was just me and him for a long time and those years were some of the toughest of my life.

Until this year. I can't wait to say goodbye and good riddance to this year.

The loneliness is palpable.

In an episode of Sex and the City, when discussing her lack of a boyfriend, Carrie Bradshaw told Charlotte, "The loneliness is palpable." That line always struck me as heartbreaking because, even at my lowest of lows, I've never really felt that way.

Until now. Now I know.

Thirteen years and almost three months ago, I fell in love at first sight. He was the absolute cutest puppy I'd ever seen. He loved me instantly, too. 

It was absolute chaos because there was something like three or four litters of puppies at once (I promise this was a very reputable breeder of champion show dogs, not a puppy mill!) and they were super excited to have two visitors - my mom and me. We were there to pick up the latest addition to my parents' gang of show dogs, back when they used to breed and show golden retrievers, too. My parents were excited because of the parentage of this puppy and because the breeder, a friend of theirs, said he was the best she'd seen since the puppy's father was showing and my parents loved the looks of his father.

I could have cared less about any of the show dog talk. I was there for the puppies. So. Many. Puppies. My mom hates driving in the mountains and didn't want to go almost to Pittsburgh alone, so I said I'd go. Puppies, after all, particularly golden retriever puppies, are irresistible.

When we first got to the kennel, the breeder showed us the puppy that was to be ours. He stacked (that's dorky dog show talk for how dogs are supposed to stand in the show ring) perfectly. Everything about him looked perfect and he was only six weeks old. I loved him right away.

In a room full of adorable golden retriever puppies, I sat down to play, to break up vicious puppy battles, to rub puppy bellies, to have my hair chewed on. Our puppy ran around the room twice, noticed me sitting down, ran full speed at me, and then slammed on the brakes, put his head on my foot, and fell asleep. Needless to say, I was hooked. This was supposed to be my dad's dog - he'd even picked out his name: Dewey - but my poor dad didn't stand a chance. 

Dewey and I were inseparable. No one existed outside of our happy little puppy cuddles bubble and that didn't change in the thirteen years we had together. Dewey lived with my parents and I visited him as much as possible, sometimes coming home every weekend just because I couldn't stand being away from him.

When I moved to Canada six years ago, he went with me. There was no way I could leave him behind and my parents finally caved to years of begging them to give me to him. I was so excited. He was so excited. 

Everything about Canada was an adventure for us. Neighborhood walks were new because my parents lived in the country with a giant backyard, so Dewey wasn't used to going for walks and I wasn't used to walking a dog all the time. I met so many people over the years because of Dewey. He was not afraid to walk up to anyone, convinced they absolutely wanted to pet him. He was so handsome, why wouldn't they? Dog parks were new to us, so was going for hikes or going swimming in lakes, his most favorite activities, second only to eating and sleeping. 

He quickly became a mascot of sorts for my grad student friends, who all loved him. Most of them found him just as hilarious and charming as I did. The first time I invited a friend to my apartment in Canada, Dewey was clearly put out because she was sitting in his spot on the sofa. After an hour or so, he was sick of sitting on the floor and started staring at her, not so subtly communicating he was unhappy with her being there. She thought he was so cute that she offered to sit on the floor! The first party I threw, another friend was sitting on the floor with a plate of food and Dewey sat next to her for quite some time, hoping to be fed. Eventually he gave up and just grabbed a quesadilla off her plate, which he scarfed down while remaining seated right next to her. He didn't even have the nerve to look guilty. Why should he? He loved when I had parties. The food was everywhere and no one could resist his face. The parties had a time limit, though, and, if he was up too long past his bedtime, he became visibly annoyed. He'd frequently climb up on the couch, bulldozing his way over people, lay down, and then slowly but steadily push them with his feet. It was his couch, after all. Friends would stay at my place because I lived very close to downtown. One friend in particular stayed more than anyone and when Dewey woke up in the morning, he would be delighted to find her sleeping on the couch...until he realized she was on his couch and not moving. He'd whine right by her face and whine and whine and whine. That's not a sound you want to hear first thing in the morning, especially when you're hungover. If she didn't make room for him in a satisfactory amount of time, he would jump over her, stomping ungracefully all over her, and lay down behind her. Like I said, it was his couch.

I struggled with depression in Canada. I still do, but he helped. There were too many days when I only got out of bed to feed and walk him. Even then, I couldn't wait to get back to bed. He would cuddle with me, as if he was just trying to make me feel better by sheer closeness. And he did. I slowly get better. I went to the doctor because of him. I went on an antidepressant and through counseling because of him. I couldn't stand to neglect him, so I got help for myself. I'm not exaggerating when I say he saved my life. I wouldn't have done any of that if I had been on my own.

He had many health scares over the years. I cut short a summer research trip in Scotland four years ago because he had to have some lumps removed. I didn't regret it for a minute, especially when the vet decided to remove all seven lumps and he was in so much pain. He was diagnosed with kidney disease three years ago and a thyroid condition last year. He had serious eye issues, like cataracts, glaucoma, and P.U.V. that started three or so years ago. Through it all, though, he was fine. I know that sounds crazy, but he was. We adjusted his diet, added some prescriptions and a lot of herbal supplements, and he was ok. He was happy. 

This summer he had this disgusting skin condition that, after months of vet visits and tests, turned out to be skin cancer, which is fairly aggressive and fast-moving in dogs. At his age, the treatment is as bad as the disease, so I promised to just keep him comfortable and happy as long as I could and then to let him go when I couldn't.

I thought I had months. I hoped for a year. In reality, by the time, he was diagnosed, I had less than two months. Two weeks ago I was hoping he would make it to Christmas. Last week I hoped for Thanksgiving. By Friday night, I was hoping he would make it to Tuesday, so I could get through my Monday classes and spend all day with him Tuesday before letting him go. It was clear that he was hanging on for me. It was also clear that he was barely hanging on. By Saturday, I was hoping he would go peacefully in his sleep. Sunday, I hoped I could get home from class Monday in time.

Monday, I can honestly say, was the worst day of my life. Saying goodbye was beyond painful. How do you say goodbye to a dog that is more than a dog? A dog that is your best friend? A dog that is your life? How do you walk out of the room, leaving him there? I still don't know how I walked away. I don't remember leaving the vet's office. I remember holding him and then I was home, sitting in my mom's car in the garage, trying to force myself to walk in the house, knowing that Dewey would not be there to greet me, that he will never be there to greet me again.

My parents still have three other dogs, including Dewey's daughter, who I adore and who worships me, but it is not the same. There is a giant presence missing. I am at a loss as to what to do. Before he was sick, my focus was on playing with him and cuddling with him and having fun with him. When he was sick, my focus was on keeping him comfortable and happy. Now what do I do? The house is so empty without him here. I am so empty without him here.

The loneliness really is palpable.

Absence, Illness, and Heartache

Some of you may be wondering where I've been lately; it's been a couple of weeks since I posted anything, after all. Some of you may be grateful for the quiet, though, in which case, please don't tell me!

To make a long story short, I've been sick with some sort of mystery illness that lasted about a month, but finally, finally. I'm pretty sure it was bronchitis, though I can't be certain because I don't have health insurance and can't go to the doctor or get a prescription unless I am near death. I felt sick enough for long enough, though, that I decided to skip DHSI in the interest of getting better and also not infecting everyone on my plane and at DHSI. You are welcome, people. It was miserable not going, since I've been looking forward to it for over a year and I kept thinking about how much money I lost because I can't get reimbursed for my travel award without a boarding pass. It was the right thing to do, but it sucked. Instead of getting my DH geek on, I slept for 16-20 hours every day for five days straight and followed along on twitter when I could stay awake. I know, I know. I should have gone to the doctor. I feel almost totally better now. Almost.

The dissertation is in bad shape, though, thanks to the mystery illness. I'm behind with one chapter and I have another one due at the end of the month. I basically need to finish two chapters in two weeks. That would be hilarious if it wasn't so awful.

Speaking of awful, the reason that I'm writing this at 5:00 a.m. is that the day I've dreaded for months now finally came and we had to say goodbye to Tank today. You might remember Tank's drama that I wrote about in March. I can't remember if I later wrote about how he actually had some sort of cancer in his bloodstream that attacks organs over time, but he did. For the past week or so, he stopped eating breakfast and eventually just picked at his dinner and acted very tired. We took him to the vet Monday, hoping it was just an infection, but knowing it wasn't. I had to take him to the vet because I was off, but my mom met me there because she's a control freak when it comes to the dogs. However, my dad's car was there, too, which immediately led to hysterics on my part (I'm not ashamed to admit it, I completely lost it) because I was afraid they wanted to put him to sleep right then and there, even though he was still happy, moving around, and eating. Fortunately, that didn't happen; the control freak just wanted my dad there in case it was necessary. The vet did warn us that it was only a matter of time and not much time at that. Wednesday we decided to put Tank to sleep Thursday night, but he didn't want to get out of my bed in the morning, even to go outside or to get a drink. He was in really rough shape, so I decided we should reschedule for as soon as possible, despite wanting to hold him and pet him and give him cuddles for as long as possible.

I really am glad he isn't suffering any more (I'm trying to be an adult about this!) and that I got to a point where I could admit it needed to happen, but today is my birthday and the only thing I want is a healthy Tank back and that just isn't going to happen. The worst is that his sister, Princess, starts wandering around the house, looking for him, every time she gets up and then she gets upset when she can't find him and then we all get upset all over again. I clearly do not do well with losing a pet.

Sleep well, my precious little Tank. I will love you and miss you forever and so will Princess.

Princess and Tank (right) hiding and cuddling under the kitchen table.

Week 14: Rounding Third

Forgive the baseball analogy, but it's that time of year and not a minute too soon. Go Yankees!

Now that that's out of the way, in all seriousness, we are quickly coming to the end of this writing group. (Fortunately, Dame Eleanor Hull has offered to host the next incarnation of the group for those of us who need/want it.) Is anyone exhausted by the semester? Is anyone exhausted by trying to squeeze in the all-precious writing that we swore to protect at all costs, but perhaps we were not as vigilant as we could have been or the universe thought we were hilarious with such a vow and decided to prove just how wrong we could be? Yeah, that's me.

I struggled to even come up with a topic for the week because I am just so tired, but then I remembered a post by Kathy Steffen I read a few months ago about getting your writing back on track and one of my favorite tips was "Print out motivation quotes or writing affirmations and tape them to your computer so you will see inspirational words every day." This writing group, for me at least, is all about inspiration. I do, however, have a secret love, the best writing coach ever, that I thought I would share. Some of you may know him from the tv show Friday Night Lights, but some of you may not because you do not have the television interests of a fifteen year old girl. Meet Academic Coach Taylor. He can be hardcore, but it's all out of love. My laptop, iPhone, and desk are all littered with ACT pics.

He speaks the truth.

He can be a sweetie.

He can be...less sweet.

He can also be an enforcer when he needs to be (or when you need him to be).

Those are just a few of my favorites, but Academic Coach Taylor has loads more to say. Feel free to share anything you find particularly inspiring, but, otherwise, let's keep writing! We're almost there!

Quick Tank update for those of you asking - he had his stitches out yesterday, despite an obscene amount of whining and hysterics about going back to the vet (not uncalled for in his case, but still!) and then the precious boy actually gave the vet tech kisses while she was removing his stitches. So upset and still so loveable! Anyway, he's fine and here's a picture of the little muffin his first night home after the surgery. He looks absolutely thrilled to have to wear that cone, doesn't he? He's not the only one to be glad he's done with the cone.

Roll call!


Amanda@ladyscientist: Finish fellowship application.

Amstr (writing account): re-park diss. downhill.

Bardiac: no check-in

Contigent Cassandra: make continued progress on writing and/or research, alternating back and forth as necessary (and switching off with preparation for the mid-April lecture). get the tax tasks completed well before April 15th.

Dame Eleanor Hull: submit final draft of companion-piece. Continue at least one hour of research a day, 3 lines of transcription and 50 of translation. Return to MMP-1 and write another 2-3 paragraphs.

Danne: no check-in

Elizabeth Anne Mitchell: Begin the survey question creation for article B.

Good Enough Woman: Write conference proposal on new shiny topic.

heu mihi: Read through Kzoo draft; fix what's easy; list what needs doing.

humming42: submit May abstract, touch manuscript every day

Jane B: a) continue to do something research-like first every day, b) write up what I've done so far with the simulations, outline what the next step is (I am embarrassingly bad at parking computer stuff on a downhill slope) and outline the paper they're going to turn into and c) finish the damn draft of the wretched paper with the MSc student.

Jason: no check-in

Jodi: Write a ton Monday and Tuesday. Hopefully finish the revised first chapter by Wednesday. Grade exams by Friday.

kiwi2: Final draft of grant proposal, one pager and summary. Send paper X to collaborator B. Start gathering data files for next paper all in one place. I am also involved in a conference this week, giving a paper and chairing, so the last goal could be over ambitious.

kiwimedievalist/zcat_abroad: no check-in

luolin88: Complete the requested revisions for the article. Time: 30 mins TWTh and 1hour Friday.

Matilda: revision of my paper

meansomething:  1) 5 12-minute sessions; 2) 1 ms. submission; 3) 1 mag submission

metheist: T/R 7hrs and MWF 1-2hrs

nwgirl: no check-in

Pilgrim/Heretic: LOOK at the damned thing at least 5 minutes per day, even if I don't write anything

profacero (Z): Spanish version of abstract, write and send.

Susan: Catch up with teaching.

tracynicolrose: Finish drafting Frameworks presentation; draft BE discussion

Zabeel:  well, Finish paper.

Time bomb

Apologies to the writing group members expecting to get straight to the writing group post. Just click on the link at the right to go straight to Week 12 or scroll down. I normally try not to post over the weekend, so as not to throw anyone off, but I'm kind of freaking out a bit and need to unload because I can't sleep.

Thursday I took Tank to the vet because he has seemed...off. He doesn't do his whirling dervish dance before meals. He's a bit lethargic. He doesn't give as many kisses as normal because he's been laying around a lot. He's just not been his usual adorable lovebug self and we were worried, particularly since Winnie was put to sleep less than a month ago.

Thursday turned out miserably, needless to say. After a lot of whining and shaking in the vet's waiting room (he really does not enjoy leaving the house, no matter where we go, not just the vet), he had a bunch of tests done and some x-rays. His spleen was very enlarged, so Friday he had to have an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed spots on his enlarged spleen (spots are clearly worse than just an enlarged spleen, which is bad enough) and on his liver, too. But his tests came back ok, so now an oncologist is looking at his x-rays because of the liver spots.

The vet wants to remove Tank's spleen Monday morning because it is so enlarged, but we can't decide what to do. We won't get any information on the liver spots until Monday afternoon at the earliest. No one wants to put him through major surgery if he has liver cancer, too, because that's just cruel, particularly because he would have to stay at the vet's for a few days of recovery. On the other hand, we are running the risk of having his spleen rupture, which would be horribly painful for him and horribly traumatic for both him and us. No one wants him to suffer like that, obviously, but we're not ready to say goodbye because he's happy, just not as happy and silly as he was two or three weeks ago.

But what if we agree to the surgery and the vet notices that he's riddled with cancer? Again, there's no point in removing the spleen when he doesn't have long to live, in that case, but then, as my mother pointed out, it would be cruel to wake him up and wait for the spleen to rupture, which will happen and most likely soon. I hadn't even thought about that. I can't even think that Monday might be the last time I see him. I start crying at the very thought.


Tank will be eight on May 1st. He is the baby of the family; his sister is the baby, too, but Tank is beyond sweet. He's never been in trouble. I don't think anyone has ever even raised their voice at him. He's just, in a word, precious. He sleeps with me and he fights his father and sister to get the closest to me for cuddles. My lap is basically a revolving door for the three of them; Tank, being the sweetest, usually loses out the most because his sister is way too pushy and his father, the handsome one pictured on the right is far too stubborn not to get his way, has also lived with me and been completely spoiled for his entire life but I don't even care. He's perfect and it doesn't matter. But, Tank. Tank.

We are having a really, really hard time coming to terms with all of this. It's too much. It's too awful. It's Tank.

February Sucks

I basically lost my job yesterday. I can't find it, but I thought I'd written something on here somewhere about possibly teaching this summer because the school is making a push for core requirement classes, like the survey classes I teach, to be available during the summer and that adjuncts can teach them, if full-time faculty don't want to, despite the fact that they are trying to cut back on adjunct hours, which has something, I suspect, to do with this new trend of cutting adjunct hours to prepare for the Affordable Care Act, in addition to enrolment concerns, which they claim is the reason, yet all the numbers are in line with at least the last three years, so to say I'm skeptical about this is putting it mildly. The point of that terrible run-on sentence was supposed to be that I was trying not to get my hopes up about those summer classes actually happening, but I sort of did, and yesterday I met with my chair to, basically, plead my case as to why they should give me a contract for next year, rather than use me as an adjunct and risk losing me, the British history I can teach because the department doesn't offer British history currently, and my digital humanities training, which would be very useful because the school is trying to get on the online class bus and I at least am familiar with best practices in digital pedagogy and am the only person there who has experience with teaching online classes, which the other professors have no interest in learning about or starting because they are all hoping to retire in the next few years. Seriously. The three full-time professors in the department all want to retire within five years at the most. There is one visiting professor, who they want to hire TT for the next semester, but that's questionable right now with the current state of things. There are also three adjuncts, including one who is moving to Georgia this summer, one who teaches Museum Studies and World Civ only, and me. So, the department is...in trouble.

Anyways, his response was that he was sorry they had misled me since our very first meeting, but they won't be able to offer me a contract because the school is cutting back so drastically on adjuncts and on visiting professors, etc. Of course, if the numbers improve, I'd be the first person they offer classes to, but only on adjunct pay and they wouldn't know until July. As for the summer classes, the department has decided not to offer them, despite the push by the school, because the department does not think students will enroll in them. 

Basically, the department is resisting all changes the school is trying to make (and don't get me wrong - I don't agree with all of the changes, but some of the changes do seem sensible, from both a financial and an academic standpoint) and actively trying to recruit people to stand in resistance with them. Instead of going along with ideas that might even help the department, like offering more classes to attract more students, they have decided to defy ALL the changes/mandates and jump on a sinking ship. Am I bitter? Yes. Did I think all of this prior to yesterday? Absolutely.

I left the meeting in a weird mood. It was quite disheartening to hear that I most likely will not return to a school that I actually like, but, at the same time, it was kind of freeing. At least now I know. That's why I set up the meeting. I was tired of the promises and half-promises they were making and all of the rumors swirling around the school. So, now I know.

I went home after the meeting, which was the plan all along, not a reaction to the meeting, because one of our dogs, Winnie, had lymphoma and this weekend she really deteriorated, hardly being able to walk to go outside and only with help standing up because she had a massive tumor, by her left rear leg, that tripled in size the past few days. I wanted to go home and make sure she was ok and spend some time with her because it was time to put her to sleep and we did that last night, which is an entirely different kind of horrendous experience and one that I am tired of going through and never want to go through again and would never wish anyone to have to make that decision for their pet.

Winnie just turned twelve last month. She was so sweet. She was also my beloved Dewey's girlfriend. Dewey was only seven or eight months old when we brought Winnie home; they grew up together and were, honestly, insane together. They even had puppies together eventually. (That still creeps me out because I thought of them as besties, but besties don't matter in dog show world, where good genes rule and those two have excellent genes.) My parents kept the two most adorable puppies, who I adore almost as much as Dewey. They are, after all, his babies. He might hate them because they fight him for my attention (please, 99% of the time, he wins), but I love them.

This is Winnie, being obnoxious to my mother, who bought a throw rug for Winnie to sleep on and be able to stand up on because the linoleum was very difficult. Winnie, as you can see, thumbed her nose at the rug, despite it being placed exactly where she liked to lay, and decided to lay down next to it instead. I have no doubt she learned the obnoxiousness from Dewey, the master. 

So, goodbye, Winnie, and thank you so much for making us all happy and loving Dewey and giving me Princess (if you think that's a ridiculous name, you should hear her full name, though I take full responsibility for both and, trust me, she more than lives up to her obnoxious name) and Tank. We will all miss you. We already do.