[patg]

He was 6 days old and fit in the palm of my hand, with room to spare, when I first saw him. Six weeks later I brought him home. I named him Pat's Prince Pasha. Being my first Yorkshire Terrier, Pasha was, in my husband’s words, a “hairball.”

He was my dog; he ate and slept with me and followed me everywhere. He played with our cat, Michiye (Mee-Chee, that’s another story), and loved to chase the little birds on the beach at the ocean. As with all Yorkies, he knew he was a Great Dane, and nothing scared him. He was our “point man” when we hiked the foothills around Mt Ranier.

As he got older, he would go to bed promptly at 8:30 pm. He would walk to the bedroom door, turn, and give me that “Aren’t you coming to bed now?” look.

Pasha lived to be 14 years old and then had to be put down due to an unfortunate accident. I held my baby while the vet gave him the injection that ended his life. That was 6 years ago, and I still cry, as I’m doing now, when I think of that wonderful little dog. I love you, Pasha, and miss you terribly!