Smokey
We adopted our first dog when I was in junior high school.
Some family friends had found her tied outside of a gas station and, when no one claimed her, offered her to us.
They named her Smokey not because of her long, black fur, but because that first week after they took her home, she stole a pack of cigarettes from the living room table and carried them around in her mouth until they finally managed to corner her.
The first time we met her she got so excited she peed all over the floor.
She was afraid of sewer grates and water in general, but when I took her for walks in the wooded area by our house, I couldn't keep her away from the marsh.
She did this thing where she'd throw her entire body weight against the back of the couch and grunt to try to get your attention.
We called her: our Little Masochist, P.I.T.A., Smokey Baby, Smokes.
I say she was our dog, but really she was my mom's. She followed my mom around the house incessantly, demanding to be let into her bedroom at night and waiting for her outside of the bathroom door.
I was away at college when it happened. She'd tried to follow my mom to bed that night but couldn't make it up the stairs, so she laid down at the foot of the steps instead. That's where they found her the next morning.
She was a good girl.