When I refer to "his children", I can't really say for certain that the puppies were biologically his. But he took care of them so well, that for well over a month we thought he was their mother. For better or worse, Papa Dog taught the puppies how to be dogs. He taught them to bark at everything that moves, to find food, to back down from a fight when the other dog was bigger and meaner. He also taught them to run into busy streets.

Papa was a very sweet, calm dog. He let me brush him, bath him, and carry him around without any fuss. I think he was grateful for the attention. He greeted me every morning when I left for work and every evening when I came home. Eventually, I let him come inside freely. A few times, when it was very cold, he spent the night inside. He never made any mess or caused any trouble. I had every intention of taking him with me when I moved.

The Saturday morning of December 18th, 1999, I heard the dogs barking and went outside to see what the matter was. Papa was laying in the road with a broken neck. He had been fine less than an hour before. He was buried in the yard next to two of his children who had suffered the same fate before we had moved in.

I spent two days after his death, convincing myself that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. But the truth is that I knew Papa would be killed. I watched many times as he ran into traffic, chasing cars. I loved him and I wanted him to be safe and I let him die. I'm not sure exactly what I should have done. But I did nothing.

There is a tremendous void in my life now. He was a very special dog and is greatly missed. If I could go back an do it again I would never have let him die. But no one gets that chance. You have to do it right the first time. And I should have known better.