Charlie was a good dog

Part border collie

Black with a little white spot on the chest, and some on the paw

A mutt from the pound

Found, wandering 'round by the sound

He was a sweet dog

Couldn't bite you if he tried

He used to sprint

And I mean sprint

Circles around our house when he was a puppy

I would laugh and try to catch him

Boy was he fast!

Once...after he passed

He comforted me in a dream

Sleep paralysis, trapped with a demon

Licked my hand

Even in death

He was still a good boy

Red Heeler Jack Russell Cross the finest little white red specked dog in the Hills, the quickest snake killer his name going down in legend to take a black snake bite and survive to go for hours days missing and ending up on the front page of the local paper leading some protest come parade, taking on a German Shepherd three times his size to come back torn and bloody it's not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog, a legend, a scrapper, a king of dogs to be remembered.

”Lokes” came into our lives at a time we needed him most. After experiencing a brutal and heartbreaking miscarriage, my wife found herself in a bad place.

Then came Loki, our little man sold under the false pretense of being a labradoodle. He was a ball of fur and boundless energy. Unknown to him, he helped stitch our hearts back together. Our little white fluff isn’t just a dog, he’s a symbol of healing. A year later, my wife was pregnant again and we had our son. All these years later, although getting older he still has that boundless energy.

Here's the kicker, he wasn't even mine. I only knew him for fifteen days.

My family was on vacation to my Father's little pueblo in nowhere Mexico.

And we stayed with my Aunt who had a whole cabal of four dogs. A skunk blotched, arrogant kind of dog who sauntered as he walked. Canela, who was quite a rough Mother.

And the light haired Chauplin.

But Ratoncito-- who had two other names-- Mirruna and Ghandi, he was a tiny puppy with paws too big for his body.

Walked like a soldier.

March on in the clouds and leap in fjords.

Samuel was the one I could go to, the one that would calm me down when filled with rage and anger, trying to force its way into hate. Then I'd see that face. He loved me, no matter how I was feeling. He'd look up at me, I'd slow down, then we'd run.

Up to the apple trees, when they were bare I'd give him a loose branch, if there were apples, ripe or not, I would toss him one wait a minute, and take off again.

With Samuel, I could forget everything that plagued my mind only minutes before.

I once had a childhood dog and cat. I called us the three musketeers. An unlikely match, all born together, growing older together. A great white Pyrenees, a fluffy gray cat, and me. Every birthday we would take pictures. Just this year when it was our thirteenth birthday, Momo, my dog died.

I hugged him before school, like I do everyday. When I ran to say hi to Momo, he wasn't there. He was sleeping endlessly in the garden, I sat there crying. Now my pictures only have two and a stone. Now I watch my cat slowly leave too.

My friend, Bennett, had a dog, a black lab. When she died, he called me, crying until 5 a.m., or until his dad found us in the street and hauled him home in a fury. Bennett told me how he confided in her. How lost he'd be without her.

Brandii and Bennii were our cats. I didn't talk to them or personify them, but I loved them. Brandii had a lot of kittens. Often, five at a time. Bennii was one of hers. My sister raised him until she moved away. I didn't talk to my cats, but they listened.

Small Cat has white socks and a white mustache. She’s a matriarch with mocha markings and a heart of gold. She’s a hunter; once, she killed a gray squirrel big as she was. My foster-mother, my baby, she’s both. Why should something like that have to suffer so? I always try to give her a treat on her birthday. She’s partial to yogurt and she thanks me by sitting back on her haunches, lifting up those little stocking front feet, and bonking her head on my hand. Just make it one more year, old girl. We need you down here.

Scooby was my first, a German shepherd with luxurious fur, and boundless energy. He grew into a gentle giant with big brown eyes that felt like deep pools of warmth and loyalty. I always came home to him wagging his bushy tail in excitement. When it rained, he would snuggle into his space and curl up into a ball, waiting out the cold and rain for playtime in the freshly filled puddles.

When my Scooby got sick, his big brown eyes shrunk. By the end, he was a little fur ball, still with a wet nose and a warm heart.