I was just going through some of Uncle Bob's entries. Specifically the entries about his having to put his best friend of 13 years to sleep.

I started reading and was just fine. I got a few paragraphs in and... The tears are still coursing down my cheeks.

I remember the loss of pets. There is only one time when we actually had to put a dog to sleep.

I was about 9 or 10, maybe a little less. It is the only time I ever saw my father cry. Ever.

I had a Chihuahua. She wasn't anything special and I didn't have any real attachment to her. She was more a tool than a pet. Someone had told us that if you have allergies, a Chihuahua is the best dog to have as they don't have dander or some such.

Anyway, this little dog I had had given birth to a litter of four puppies. We'd sold all but one, the pick of the litter. He was black and white and so very tiny.

We named him Spike.

He thought he was a big, tough dog, until a loud noise scared him.

He picked Dad to be his person. Whenever Dad would come home from work, Spike would run up to him, yipping like a tiny dog does.

When Dad would sit down on the couch, Spike would run up to him, starting from across the room. That tiny little puppy would run up my father's leg, jump into his arms and burry his head at the crook of my Dad's elbow.

Spike loved him.

Dad always said he didn't much care for the dog, but you could see his heart soften every time Spike touched him.

then, one day, the mother and pup escaped from the back yard. There was a three-inch space between the fence post and the house. We usually kept a board there, but this time, somehow, the two of them got out.

Spike was maybe four months old. the two dogs ran out into the road and the driver of an oncoming car saw the mother, swerved to miss her and hit Spike. I think Spike was simply clipped, not actually run over.

Regardless, this was a Saturday morning, we were getting ready for church, actually. We heard the screach of tires and immediately knew something was wrong.

We went out there and the mother (I think her name was Coco, but I just don't remember) was whimpering over Spike.

Spike, that tiny, just-a-few-months-old puppy was panting hard, his eyes wide with fear and pain, his spine pointed in the middle... broken.

Dad picked him up and carried him to the car. We all got in (I don't remember what we did with the mother, but I know we took care of her somehow) we drove quickly to the vet, about five to eight miles away.

The vet said there wasn't really anything we could do... his back was broken and it was just too difficult to repair it on a dog so small.

I can still see Spike, the whole of him held easily in Dad's hand. One hand.

We were all there in the vet's office, watching, waiting as the vet administered a shot and Spike was put to sleep.

My Dad was crying. He loved that dog.

Man, The things you remember, huh? It was so very, very long ago, but I can still picture Spike in my Dad's hand as if it had happened two minutes ago.

We took him home and burried him ourselves. That's the way it was done then. There was no such thing as a "pet cemetary" when I was 9.

23 years ago. Hell, some of you weren't even a gleam in your parents' eyes.

Anyway... Just had to share that. I don't know if Uncle Bob still reads me ocassionally, but if you do, I understand.

When Pepper disappeared, I had that to-the-bone loss again, but that time I was old enough to understand the pain. I was about 20. And it ripped me apart. I'd lived with her as my best friend for 10 years. And she was gone. Just gone.

I'm sorry, Uncle Bob. My prayers are with you. May you always look upon her memory with a smile. You made the right decision, know that.

If you want to read the two entries which specifically prompted this flood of emotion, these are they.

The First One

The Second One