​  A few weeks ago I felt a window open up and a soft breeze blew in.  Not literally, figuratively.  It was as if I had graduated a level and was being rewarded.  The raging  river of fear and anguish from recent events slowed to a trickle. At the same time, a quiet washed over my mind and a settling took place.

  ​It is, as it will be.

  It has been a difficult year, with many life and death questions being asked and answered.  I had a very long run where I cried every day.  We lost our cat after a long illness.  We are losing Bella.  There have been others that I feel responsible for.  Greater or Lesser, they all count.  It is a heavy weight.  One that became too heavy for me to carry.  So I did the only thing I could think of to do.  I set it down. 
​  Something interesting happened.  Once I stopped the struggle and became still, a message revealed itself.  ​  

  ​It is, as it will be.

  For the longest time I have been holding my breath, waiting to see how it ends.  All of it.  My career, my relationships, my life.  I wonder if the choices I have made will pan out.  I wonder what will kill me and those that I love.  I wonder if we'll have enough money.  I wonder if we'll have too much.  I wonder if the Earth will survive.  I wonder if we'll ever make peace.  I wonder if I am serving my greater purpose.  I wonder if that matters. 
​  I wonder about the finish.  The End.  I process and filter information all the time to try to find the clues on how the final sequence plays out.  And then, in a reverse domino effect, I work my way back to Now and set my expectations.  The process creates predictability, reduces anxiety, and eliminates time wasted exploring outcomes that will never be realized.
​  This works well when death is the only outcome that matters.  But Death is not the point, Life is.  And more specifically, Happiness.

  So, I have been reminded, in dramatic fashion, to choose what is important, not to let it choose me.  In this, I have work to do.  But I feel the path is clearer.  Getting caught up in the Last Day has been robbing me of the Every Day and this must stop.  Today.
​  Lucky for me, someone has already put this thought cloud to words:

​TPF Note to Readers:  Please bear with us as we come to terms with the sudden, very terrible and unexpected diagnosis Bella received after a small limp resulted in the visit to our local vet.  She is now being treated at the University of Illinois.  Her time is short.  This series of reports on her condition is our way of coping while at the same time educating everyone on a very common yet tragic disease that plagues these great giant dog breeds.  More research must be done to learn better and more effective treatments and cures for this disease.  It is our hope that by participating in a clinical trial, Bella will somehow move the dial of the educational arc further into the understanding zone and closer to a solution.  Thank you for your patience and compassion during this difficult time.  ~Tom and Suzy

  When Bella was a baby, she came to live on our farm.  We knew our senior dog Sammy was slowing down and hoped there would be time for him to show her what it is that dogs do here.

  She learned a lot in the year they spent together.  Sammy showed her everything, including how to pick berries with me.

   Day after day they worked the fences and the livestock.  She learned how to guard, guide and protect.  

  As time went by, Bella gained strength and confidence.  She started to experiment with her physical size.  Sammy did his best to keep up, even allowing her to engage in rough play.  He knew playtime was important for her too.

  But he was tired and old.  Eventually Sammy's body began to fail, and the long walks became difficult for him.  He'd start out, then wait for us to come back.  One day, after a walk, he laid down to rest.  He never got up again.

  The torch had been passed.  Bella was now our lead dog.

  In the years since Sammy's passing, Bella has been a strong and steady presence on our farm.  Benny, Pete and even Lucy, all respect her leadership.  She is smart, calm and direct.  When necessary, she is a swift disciplinarian.  

​  A natural matriarch, she thinks for herself and sets  the pace.  If the Boys go left, she goes right.  They eventually fall in step.  Sammy would have been proud of his apprentice.

  Life is bringing us full circle, as now it is Bella who is navigating her final seasons.  Except there is no youngster learning at her side.  At this time in our lives, nearing retirement, we are slowly moving towards a different lifestyle and the era of sharing our lives with these larger than life dogs is coming to a close.  Too soon it seems, but the decision has been made.  Bella and Benny will be our last livestock guardian dogs.  When they are gone, the farm will transition from raising livestock into something else.  Exactly what, we don't know, but this ending will be a new beginning of some kind, time will tell.  That is a story for another day.​  

  Our plan right now is to have as many long talks and quiet moments with Bella as possible.  She has always been a good listener and I think she'd like to hear the stories of how she and Sammy used to walk the fields at dawn in search of berries and adventure.  I'd like to think she remembers Sammy, as we do, a large gruff old dog with a heart of gold and a soft spot for a bright white puppy that came to live on the farm.

  Her legacy is also secured.  We have learned together and shared the responsibility of caring for the  vulnerable and defenseless animals on our land.  She worked long days, was always on-call and never took a holiday.  A working dog that made her job look easy.  She has been forced into early retirement, her days are now leisurely and we are thankful for the companionship and tail-wags she still offers.  She doesn't know  that cancer is stealing her tomorrows and we aren't telling her.  She did the job we asked her to do, without fail or complaint, it is our turn to take care of her.  That is the contract we made when we brought her home, a commitment we will honor, a partnership until the end.     

​TPF Note to Readers:  Please bear with us as we come to terms with the sudden, very terrible and unexpected diagnosis Bella received after a small limp resulted in the visit to our local vet.  She is now being treated at the University of Illinois.  Her time is short.  This series of reports on her condition is our way of coping while at the same time educating everyone on a very common yet tragic disease that plagues these great giant dog breeds.  More research must be done to learn better and more effective treatments and cures for this disease.  It is our hope that by participating in a clinical trial, Bella will somehow move the dial of the educational arc further into the understanding zone and closer to a solution.  Thank you for your patience and compassion during this difficult time.  ~Tom and Suzy

  Last week when I stopped by the University Idea Garden, I found some beautiful plantings, but none inspired me like this one.  A whole garden for children!  How wonderful!
​  Look closely at the benches under this little structure.  And the book library!  Put that cell phone away and pick up a real book.  

  This bird bath rabbit is perfection.

  This book worm is such a great height for tiny helpers!

  When the kids decide they don't want to garden anymore?  

  There's always sand box and tic tac toe.

  Have an artist in the family?  Why not let them paint your garden structures?

  And finish off the path with their handmade stepping stones.

  The garden is a wonderful teacher.  If we're lucky we will spend our whole lives learning the lessons of Mother Nature.  Why not get started in childhood?

  Share your garden inspiration pictures with us!  We'd love to see your ideas!

  This week we went back to U of I for radiation.  The machine was repaired, we were rescheduled.  Back on track it would seem.
​  Except we weren't.  In the two weeks since Bella was originally scheduled for this treatment, her condition has dramatically worsened.  She barely uses her leg now, the swelling is noticeable, the tumor prominent on her right ankle.

  As much as I have been trying to prepare myself, I am overwhelmed by this.  Tara, the radiation technician, is not.  Her sunny, upbeat manner distracted me.  I asked her how long she had been working in this field.
​  "4 years.  I'll be here until I retire."  She responded.  "Another 18 years or so."
​  When I commented that it must be difficult to see all of the heartbreak, she told me that working in this hospital was a rare opportunity.  The dedication and concern the animals received from their families and the love shared was incredible to witness.  Even though medically, the cases were challenging, she felt good about the ability to offer hope to these often distraught animal caregivers.  She assured me she would take excellent care of Bella during her treatment.
​  Although I believed her, these trips are getting increasingly difficult for me as I am unable to hide in denial.  Leaving without Bella is a gut punch.

  Across from the University I had noticed a sign for a garden and this day I decided to stop.  I needed a moment to compose myself.  It was there I met an angel.

  As I wandered through the gardens and marveled at all of the creative plantings, I happened across a beautiful soul of a lady.  Her name is Katherine, she is a Master Gardener at the Idea Garden at the U of I Extension Campus.  I interrupted her work to compliment her on the beautiful designs and thanked her for her efforts.  We talked about the University gardens, then about our personal gardens, the weather, and finally, about the reason I was in town.  She shared that she had been taking her pets to the University Veterinary Hospital for 30 years and that she held the staff in high regard.  She told me Bella was in excellent hands and that she would pray for us on our journey.  Her hands were dirty but she offered a virtual hug and I accepted it.  I left in a hurry as the tears were flowing and drove away knowing I had been "seen".  Thank you Katherine.

  Bella is home now.  The radiation treatment is designed to give her long lasting pain relief in the area of the tumor on her leg.  I am told we should see improvement in her comfort level very soon.  This is what we have been hoping to accomplish.  As Dr. Connell described it, quality of life in the short term.  

  She shared this picture she took of Bella a few weeks ago.  I am stunned by this gift.  Bella appears so vibrant and healthy.  And happy.  I feel the Universe is trying to teach me something.  Something bigger than Bella.  I need to be still and keep my mind open, to better capture the lesson.  Never too old to be a student.

  TPF Note to Readers:  Please bear with us as we come to terms with the sudden, very terrible and unexpected diagnosis Bella received after a small limp resulted in the visit to our local vet.  She is now being treated at the University of Illinois.  Her time is short.  This series of reports on her condition is our way of coping while at the same time educating everyone on a very common yet tragic disease that plagues these great giant dog breeds.  More research must be done to learn better and more effective treatments and cures for this disease.  It is our hope that by participating in a clinical trial, Bella will somehow move the dial of the educational arc further into the understanding zone and closer to a solution.  Thank you for your patience and compassion during this difficult time.  ~Tom and Suzy

​1.  Get a pool.

2.  Fill it with water.
​3.  Wait 5 minutes.

  Once the word gets out, your work is done!

  It only took 30 minutes for every single member of our farm family to stop by the new pool.  We get a new one every year once the weather warms up.  They pretty much trash it right away.  It'll never look this clean again.  #almostsummer​

  Thanks for helping us to celebrate the unofficial start of summer!  Nothing says summer like a swimming pool and frolicking kids!  We hope you enjoy your Memorial Day weekend and be sure to thank a Veteran for us!  (Thank you for your service Dad!).

  In the world of cancer we try to break the facts up into good news and bad news.  Good news is used to describe disease that has not progressed, changed, advanced or evolved.  Good news likes to report data that can measure how cancer is being defeated, delayed or denied.  Good news tells us things like 10% are still alive after 3 years.  Good news tries to give us hope.  But good news has a dirty little secret.  Good news is only half the story.
​  Bad news is burdened with the other facts.  Bad news talks about the 90% that failed to make 3 years.  Bad news says the pain will only get worse.  Bad news wants you to understand the truth.  Bad news says get ready.  Bad news reveals that even though we don't know how long we have, we know where we are going.  Once you get past denial and grasp the reality of a terminal diagnosis, you realize there is no good news.  All of the news comes from the same bucket.  Not good, not bad.  Just news.

  Bella returned to U of I this week for her radiation treatment.  Although she hopped willingly into the Jeep for the 1-1/2 hour ride, she hesitated at the door of the building.  She remembered this as the place where I left without her.  She gave me this stare in the waiting room.  She speaks a thousand words to me with those eyes.  I feel small and helpless.  I can't return her gaze.
​  The staff here has been amazing.  I have never been treated with such attentiveness in a medical setting.  Doctors, residents and students, all have answered every question with thoroughness and patience.  They have listened to every story I've told, kindly nodding and smiling and acting as if this dog, our family, was their only concern.  They are careful, consistent and compassionate.  I wonder who they are.  Outside of this building, in their own lives, how do they process their days?  What brings them down this path?  Perhaps I will ask next time.
​  It is a difficult job.  This place is often the last resort for treatment and hope.  From the waiting room I see the pets come in.  Some walking, some carried.  They are old and young.  Patches of missing hair, surgery scars, ragged breathing and wide eyed, many are in final days. 
​  The emergency patients are rushed in with their grief stricken humans and I step aside to allow them the space to process their panic.  The staff is efficient and quickly moves them to a private room to await whatever news they will receive.  I understand their fear.  I respect it.  I know we will be there too, in the future,  weighing impossible options and making impossible decisions.  I try to imagine getting ready to go to work here every morning.
​  I leave Bella with a heavy heart.  This is becoming a new normal.  She will again stay overnight for treatment.

  Later, I receive a phone call from Doctor Connell (Resident, Oncology), the news this week is that after prepping Bella for her radiation treatment, the machine broke down.  The radiation machine.  Like a cranky old copier, it just quit.  In the fog of my brain, I attempt to process this information.  I blink uncomprehending.  I feel something, surging, welling up in the core of my body, a loud silent NO!  We have waited 3 weeks for this day, this treatment.  We weighed and declined other treatment options in favor of this option.  This was supposed to be the treatment that finally said, "Take THAT cancer!"  How is this possible? 
​  I take a deep breath and push the panic back into the dark reaches of my subconscious self where such things are kept, to be dealt with at another time.  The man who fixes old radiation machines lives in Canada, I'm told.  He will be here next week.  Hopefully he has the right parts and can do the job quickly.  We will be rescheduled.
​  I manage a small bit of empathy for the bearer of this news.  I realize that this puts a major wrench into their clinical trial.  I am sure that behind the scenes there were some choice words spoken, some worried phone calls placed.  It is a setback, not just for us, but for all the students and educators in this program.
​  I arrive to pick up Bella and am greeted by another young person, Doctor Sadler (Senior Veterinary Student, Class of 2018) who is very composed and apologetic. I find that my humanity has returned and I accept that these are things out of our control.  We have a quiet conversation where I am brought up to speed on the procedures they performed on Bella and her new medication schedule.  I am allowed as much time as necessary to communicate whatever thoughts and questions I can put together.  They are so incredibly patient with me.  These child doctors, likely the ages of my own children, are so stoic and calm, it feels like a role reversal.
​  I am reunited with Bella and it is bittersweet.  I am taking her home knowing that with her treatment delayed, her only pain relief will be in the cocktail of pills that I prepare for her each morning and night.  Her cancer will be growing, unabated and time is not on our side.  Worry is useless here, but still my constant companion.  Bella knows nothing of my concerns.  She is happy to see me, happy to be going home, happy to be alive.​  

  Driving this road each week, watching the miles and miles of farmland unfold around me, I am reminded that we are such a small part of the greater whole.  We will all become dust again one day.  If we are lucky, in our final days, we will be surrounded by the people we love in the places we love, with no regrets except for those left behind.  I choose this death for Bella, just as I choose it for myself.  With so many things beyond our control, we have resolved that Bella shall not be asked to suffer in her final days in order to give us more time.  Once the disease has taken the joy from her days, and she no longer cares if we come or go, and she tells us with those eyes that which cannot be spoken, we will let her go.  That is our path now, our focus.  Kindness in life, kindness in death.  Everything in between is just a gift.

  ​TPF Note to Readers:  Please bear with us as we come to terms with the sudden, very terrible and unexpected diagnosis Bella received after a small limp resulted in the visit to our local vet.  She is now being treated at the University of Illinois.  Her time is short.  This series of reports on her condition is our way of coping while at the same time educating everyone on a very common yet tragic disease that plagues these great giant dog breeds.  More research must be done to learn better and more effective treatments and cures for this disease.  It is our hope that by participating in a clinical trial, Bella will somehow move the dial of the educational arc further into the understanding zone and closer to a solution.  Thank you for your patience and compassion during this difficult time.  ~Tom and Suzy

  Bella started her treatment for Osteosarcoma this week at U of I.  For the first time in her 6 short years of life, she was away from home overnight.  Benny knows I took her away, he also knows I did not bring her right back.  He sat vigil by my Jeep, waiting.   
​  Reading over the Doctor's reports I have learned that this is a bad one.  Maybe the worst.  Some of the descriptors of this cancer are:  "frustrating to treat", "highly locally invasive", "highly metastatic", and grimly, if no treatment is offered above just pain management, the survival rate is "2-4 months".  With treatment, she has a 50% chance of surviving one year.
​  Just 3 weeks ago, we had no idea anything was even wrong.  Sadly, since the diagnosis 2 weeks ago, there has not been one shred of good news or hope to hang onto.  None. 
  It's hard to accept what we know about her condition when she appears so healthy. Early disease is deceiving.  Good appetite and weight.  Blood work looks good.  Lungs are clear.  The fact that they are constantly checking these things, tells me what I don't want to know.  Tomorrow she will be slightly less than today.  Day after day, she will decline, until she is no more.

  The staff at the University have been in constant contact with me during her stay.  When I arrived to pick her up at the hospital they raved about what a wonderful dog she is.  She looked relieved to see me, but tired.  She has been through a lot in a short amount of time.

  After the long ride home, Benny welcomed her back. 

  And then, she rested.
​  As I have poured over the information provided and gleaned from very serious conversations with her medical team, there is just one common thread.  Wait for the disease to progress (it will) and manage her pain as best we can.  The fact that we "caught" it early is of little comfort, as the disease is unstoppable. 
​  Next week she goes back for radiation.  This will help short term with bone pain.  She will also receive a bone strengthening agent to help guard against fracture, since the bone around the tumor area has been compromised.  This, I have learned in my crash course on bone cancer, is what is considered palliative care.  It is what we can do to make her more comfortable, but is unfortunately not a cure.  There is no cure.   
​  For now, we are thankful she is home and resting comfortably.  Sweet dreams baby girl.​ 

  TPF Note to Readers:  Please bear with us as we come to terms with the sudden, very terrible and unexpected diagnosis Bella received after a small limp resulted in the visit to our local vet.  She is now being treated at the University of Illinois.  Her time is short.  This series of reports on her condition is our way of coping while at the same time educating everyone on a very common yet tragic disease that plagues these great giant dog breeds.  More research must be done to learn better and more effective treatments and cures for this disease.  It is our hope that by participating in a clinical trial, Bella will somehow move the dial of the educational arc further into the understanding zone and closer to a solution.  Thank you for your patience and compassion during this difficult time.  ~Tom and Suzy

  ​Bella and I got up early Tuesday and made the trek down to the University of Illinois to confirm her diagnosis and to determine a course of treatment for her cancer.

  Benny is not happy that I keep taking his girl away.  They are so bonded.  I'm trying not to think about what will happen to him when the cancer takes her away forever.
  In the back of my mind I thought maybe they'd find out it wasn't cancer at all.  Just some silly scans.  And a silly puffy leg.  Not cancer.  It could have been a bruise or maybe a sprained ankle.  Dogs get those too, don't they? 

  She rode so nice in the Jeep.  That was one of the reasons we got that car, so we could drive the dogs places, take some trips.  It works great for these big dogs, lots of head room and a roomy place to lay down.  Not that we ever take the dogs anywhere, except to the vet and the groomer.  And now, the University.  But the idea of taking these big beautiful dogs on a road trip really appealed to me.  Even though they are working dogs, they make good companion animals as well.  Plus they are very people friendly.  But now, with a bad leg, I guess we missed our window to take Bella on a trip.  Damn cancer!
​  She had a needle aspiration done under sedation and of course the results were positive.  Osteosarcoma.  Such an ugly word.  For the second time in a week I find myself having a conversation with a Doctor about removing the leg of our precious Bella.​ This feels surreal.

  I've had a lot of life experiences, but I've never had to decide something like this.  Doctor Fan explained the procedures, the surgery, the followup and a clinical trial that Bella fit the profile for.  It would save us thousands of dollars.  We discussed it at great length.  I asked a million questions.  I find out that the average life expectancy is about 10 months after the surgery.  10 months!  Cut off a leg and you only get 10 months?!
​  I look out the window and a rabbit hops into view.

  I watch it for awhile then turn back to the Doctor.  "What else can we do?" I ask.
​  He tells me about a different clinical trial that uses radiation on the tumor, while trying to rebuild the bone mass and additionally working to boost the immune system to fight the cancer cells with antibodies.  It is a limb sparing protocol that is showing promising results.  I look it up online and wonder if it would be aggressive enough.  The Doctor says that the outcome will likely be the same, time-wise.  Either way, she might have 1-3 years.  No one knows for sure.  It's all a big guess how well she'll respond to treatment.  My head is spinning.
​  I call Farmer Tom and we make a decision.  Next week she goes back to start treatment.  We chose the radiation therapy.  It's a horrible decision to have to make, and I'm sick with the worry of What If We Are Wrong?  I'm also consumed with WHY?
​  Why her?  What is wrong with letting a perfectly good and healthy dog live out it's natural life without getting some awful disease that robs several years of productive life and breaks our hearts in the process?  Why does this happen?
​  I know I sound bitter.  I am bitter.  I'm disappointed.  I'm angry.  It's not fair, she did not deserve this.  We can't fix it for her and that upsets me more than anything.  Even though we have a plan to provide robust pain management, her world has been turned upside down and she will likely suffer before it is over.

  So, we have a year.  Maybe.  She has the most beautiful temperament, the hospital staff will fall in love with her as we have and I know they'll do their best.  Participating in a clinical trial may not cure Bella's cancer, but it might help a family down the road to have better treatment options for their precious pet.  It's a small grace, but the only one I can offer today.

  Thank you for joining me as we begin this terrible and scary journey.  As I am able, I will of course provide updates on the rest of the farm, but for now Bella deserves my attention and she will have it.  If you haven't already hugged your pet today, now would be a good time.  <3

  As we were waiting for the Vet to come back into the room, I looked my baby girl in the face and took a deep breath.  This was the last time I would look at her without knowing the battle we were facing.  
​  The news came hard and fast.  ​ 

  "Bella has cancer.  Bone Cancer.  Her right front ankle."
​  "This is where they get it", the Vet said.  "At the end of the long bones in the legs.  These large dogs are prone to it.  She is only 6 years old.  I'm sorry."​  ​

   She had only started limping a few days ago.  A swelling on her ankle made it look like inflammation related to injury.  It seemed fixable.  Temporary.  Just pop on over to the vet and have them make the repair.
​  Now I'm hearing words like Osteosarcoma.  Surgery.  Amputation.  Pain management.

  No one chooses this path, it chooses us.  I can't possibly imagine what we have ahead, although I have heard the stories.  Many have traveled this journey before us.  What I know right now is what the Vet did not say out loud.  Bella is dying.  Sooner rather than later.  It matters not that she is too young and precious and undeserving. 

  ​We have an appointment this week for a consult at the University of Illinois.  Oncology Dept.  There we hope to figure out the best choices for her future.  Her life and her death.  Choices that will weigh heavy on our hearts and minds.  Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.  

  If you have experience with cancer treatment in your dog, I'd be interested in hearing your story.  Feel free to post on the page, in comments or message me.  The more we know, the better decisions we can make.  Thank you.

  It is a very ordinary word in appearance.  When spoken out loud it kind of sticks to your tongue.  In definition, however, it takes on a menace: 

• ​Oxford:  Reduce the population by selective slaughter.
• Merriam-Webster:  Something rejected especially as being inferior or worthless.
• Cambridge:  If you cull animals or plants, you kill or remove them.  

  Cull.  CULL.​

  By extrapolation, to be the object of a cull, is to be in a precarious situation indeed.
​   Generally speaking, the decision to cull an animal is never made lightly.  It will be based on several factors including:

• ​Genetic strengths or weaknesses
• Economic impact
• Age and viability
• Herd or flock size
• Temperament

  For example:  An aging hen that no longer lays a daily egg and cannot support the cost of her feed shall be culled as an economic decision.  Or, a successful breeding program is entirely reliant on the culling decisions that are made to promote genetic strengths and eliminate genetic weaknesses.  This is Farming 101.
​  Farmer Tom and I suck at this.  As farmers, we like to grow stuff, to create new life.  We like to see things flourish and prosper.  We are all about that.  We keep all of our hens past laying age, until natural death occurs.  We have nurtured, even celebrated, an otherly-abled, genetically-challenged, flock member.  (You might remember Bob the Chicken?)  When we have raised birds for meat, we delay delay delay processing, until the sobering reality of keeping and feeding a coop full of hostile, angry roosters is worse than the discomfort of assigning them an expiration date.
​  In our chicken breeding program, we have worked to incorporate best traits, but not always best practices.  On our farm we have two flocks of birds.  Our breeding stock and our culled birds.  By keeping and raising our culled birds, we have eliminated (or avoided) the actual cull, or death by selective slaughter.  Because in truth, most times the only thing wrong with a "cull" is that they might not have the correct egg color, or feather pattern, or points on their comb.  It doesn't mean they aren't physically good and healthy specimens.  The hens still lay beautiful eggs that make for a tasty omelet in the morning.  They just don't make the cut, as far as Standards of Perfection, defines it.  So be it.  If it means we have to raise two separate flocks, we're ok with that.  We've been doing it for years.
  We despise death, it is the antithesis to our work.  Either by accident or design, it weighs heavy on our hearts.  But even here, where we carry the torch for all life under our care, there is one scenario where a cull is necessary and cannot be responsibly avoided.  
​  Occasionally, we'll find we have an animal that creates such a negative impact on the other herd animals such that they can no longer enjoy a quality of life, and sometimes an animal presents a physical threat to others that cannot be abated nor controlled through reasonable measures.  An individual animal cannot threaten or risk the health and well-being of the whole.  This is an animal that must be removed.  If the temperament issues cannot be resolved by separation and/or relocation, and are imbedded, a hard cull is necessary.
  And it is hard.  And necessary.
​  I've said it before and I'll say it again: 

  Thank you for joining us!  Feel free to check out the archives and let me know which story is your favorite!  I hope to see you again soon.  :)