Kara

He was cradled in my husband's arms when I came home from work that day.

"Oooh [cooing sounds]! How cute! Whose puppy?"

My husband looked at me through long lashes with a tentative smile and said, "Ours."

Which led to our last screaming argument, his leaving the house to cool off and a few weeks of simmering. I have severe allergies and would become the de facto caretaker even if my husband claimed he would take care of him, so, I was not thrilled.

The puppy stayed. We named him Kara, which means black in Turkish. My husband had found him in a auto mechanic shop being abused by the pitbull daddy - apparently because he looked more like his Rottweiler mum. He was covered in oil and being pushed away from his mother's milk repeatedly. So, my husband felt compelled to save him. He wrapped him in a towel and brought him home.

He threw up oil all over the backseat during the drive. My husband bathed him until the water ran clear and Kara was the beautiful black and brown puppy I found in my husband's arms.

How could I banish him after hearing his story?

My only condition was that he had to be a sweet dog. All the stories of violent Pitbulls had me very concerned since our son was five at the time. (And overjoyed to have a puppy as you can imagine.)

I needn't have worried. Kara was the sweetest dog you've ever met. He almost never barked so if he did, you knew something was wrong. He loved people and only ever barked at two: and they deserved it. One was the contractor who took our money and ran.

Kara was so smart. Regardless of which bus my husband took home from work, he could feel him coming and would go wait in the corner of the garden a few minutes before the bus came. Then he would run the whole length of the garden as my husband walked up the street. He would wait on the front lawn, sitting yet tail wagging, with barely contained excitement.

He wasn't allowed on the furniture, but often, towards the end of his life, I would come home and find him curled on the couch or the recliner. He'd look up so happy to see me, then remember, uh oh, I'm not supposed to be here. Slowly, he would get down, tail between his legs and go to one of his doggie beds as I tried to keep a straight face.

He brightened our lives for ten years.