When I turned seventeen and my dog, Lassie (who is actually a male), turned twelve, I knew the end was creeping around the corner. He was getting old; by this point, he was half-blind because cataract, and had to limp around the house because of his rheumatic. Yet he still welcomed us excitedly when we got home, and when he looked at me with those sad, brown eyes, he looked like he could really see through me. We wanted to take him to the vet, but for whatever reason, never got around to it. I was worried that he would die when I wasn’t around, and that was exactly what happened.

I cried a bit when I was told he had died. If you never had a pet, you wouldn’t know how heartbreaking it is to lose one, especially one that had been a part of the family for twelve years. I don’t think any of us was eager to replace him.

Two months later, a friend of Dad’s, who have heard about our loss, came and gave us a puppy. This one isn’t a street dog like my Lassie was. She’s a pitbull puppy, with light brown fur and grayish blue eyes. The tip of her tail and all four of his legs are white, so we called her Tipsy.