(We're sharing the news that George died through a letter to Thomas Prentice, the original owner of this house because, well, it seems a proper send off.)
September 25, 2018
Two weeks ago, our "fourth child" George, our ornery, loyal Airedale Terrier died. He was 12 years old. Without a doubt, he was the cutest worst inn dog.
George's sole job was to protect me from everyone. He was born in Tennessee but when we moved to buy your house, his fell hard for Vermont. He patrolled your 21 acres and the vegetable garden perimeter was his domain. He loved the snow, chasing squirrels and woodchucks and going on long hikes year-round. For a middle-aged dog, he adjusted to inn life with guests coming and going, although he was never great with delivery men. George would randomly bite ankles, not break skin, more like a warning, "Back away from my mom."
At one point, we brought in a dog trainer but had no success and even tried to find a new home for him. No one wanted an old dog. So we banished George down the hill to our house. He'd come out when guests and staff were off for the day. For years, when we were busy with weddings, arrivals and cooking classes, we'd take him to doggie daycare (a dog heaven on earth) as he loved being around his furry friends.
I know what you're thinking, "how absurd, just put the dog down already." George may not have been born for inn life, but he was born to be a member of our family. And it's not easy saying good-by to any relative, even the crankiest ones.
Until next time, your house's faithful caretaker,