Bart.

Bart was my family's dog since I was a freshman in high school. He was an adorable little puppy -- almost entirely black with white paws. We debated calling him something to reflect his coloring (Spats?) but realized that we like people-dog names (Bart, Buffy, Beau, Sunday and Shelby are included in my family's dog ownership . . . I guess all of our names are B.S.). When he was a little adorable puppy, too young to be left long, my mom would tuck him in a picnic basket and bring him to whatever freshman game I had to cheer that day. It wasn't long before we robbed that adorable little puppy of any dignity and put a purple scrunchy (yes, scrunchy, it was 1993) on him and declared him our mascot, the puppy-Panther.

He grew into a neurotic but loving dog. He may have slept on my brother's bed when my parents weren't paying attention but he was always my mom's dog. As he became a very senior dog, it was clear that he wasn't escaping the maladies of old dog-age. He had trouble getting up some times, or his back legs would just slip out from under him. He couldn't see very well any more and he was partially deaf. But he still knew how to cuddle up under feet and sat vigil if my mom was sick.

The old-man Bart had to be put to sleep on Friday. After a good morning, eating most of his breakfast and stealing Shelby's ball, he had a stroke. While he had trouble standing earlier, he still had his dignity and would growl when someone would lift him to his feet. This time, he didn't growl. It was time. My mom called me on Friday night to tell me. My poor mother has had to put two dogs to sleep alone now. Mom and I cried on the phone for awhile but you have to know that he was a good dog, with a good life, who is hopefully chewing on his Frisbee up in dog heaven.