The pride and the pack

They have their pack, we have our pride. Sometimes the two come together and we walk.
This is a sad tale.
Ffion knew Pitta, the small black dog, when she was only a twinkle in her dad's eye. From the day the pups were born she had seen and chosen the one that would be hers and at six weeks old Pit went to live at Ffi's house. Small and round as a shilling, snub nosed, warm black puppy, she was ever a bundle of delight. Even as a pup she came to visit and soon her and Bella were good friends and would walk and run the hill, searching the bracken for beautiful scents that filled the nose with stories of creatures, rabbit and pheasant, weasel and stoat.
We taught her manners where cats were concerned, but could only instill respect for ourselves in the black dog. Cats elsewhere were fair game for a chase.
Pitta loved balls, sticks and stones, the beach, cuddly toys especially with squeaks, corks, bits of paper, rock pools where she would wallow like a hippo, walks, the salt wind, sand, birds and play, but most of all and above anything else she loved Ffion and Ffion loved her. ( I, Pixie, slept in Ffion's jumper when I was a kit, and would sometimes curl with Ffion and Pitta on the sofa by the fire.)
A year ago Pitta became ill. Two operations helped to give her a good year of life but a few weeks ago she began to falter and stumble. She came to visit a few days ago and was pleased to see us all again but we knew then that she had come to say goodbye.
She died a few days ago and leaves a space in all our lives that cannot be filled, but most of all she leave the biggest hole in Ffion's heart. It is as if her shadow has been stolen.
So we will miss the black dog, and our hearts go out to Ffion.
The pack and the pride are both diminished in her passing
There is nothing else that we can say.