According to Native American legend, if an animal is born with two different colored eyes, a special spirit dwells inside its body. Chet and I had such a dog, a Spirit Dog, with one brown eye and the other blue; his name was Bogart (Bogie for short). Bogie lived to be almost 16-years-old; but he died today, peacefully in his sleep, after the vet administered a shot that forever stilled his gallant heart.

Asking the vet to end Bogie’s life was one of the hardest decisions Chet and I have ever faced; but it was time, for he was obviously suffering. Once 120 pounds of muscle, he weighed barely 80 pounds, at most; he could not walk across the yard without falling; and when he fell, he could not get up again without help. The medicine he’d been taking for almost a year no longer eased his arthritic pain. He was incontinent. His once bright eyes had grown dull. His once glossy black coat had become almost totally gray. Yet, Bogie, like all of God’s creatures, was helpless before the onslaught of merciless old age. And although Chet and I feel so very guilty for our decision, and that guilt weighs heavily on our hearts, we still know we did the right thing for Bogie, the humane thing. We must believe that, for it’s our only consolation.

I will not remember Bogie, however, as he was today. I will remember him as he was, first, as a puppy, a cute, round, black ball of fur, that Chet bought and surprised me with for my birthday. Oh, how that puppy loved to run. Of course, I could run for miles back then, and so Bogie and I ran together. We ran around the lake and through the woods and fields back in Carrollton, Georgia, running sometimes for miles, with neither of us tiring. We were as fast as the wind and as free.

I will also remember Bogie as a young dog, as he was when we moved to Hiawassee, where he, Chet, and I hiked the trails of North Georgia and where Bogie once managed to roll his doghouse down the mountain in back of the house, much to his own chagrin. I will also remember him as a mature dog, as he was when time continued its inexorable passage and the fates conspired to send us to Louisiana, where my Spirit Dog and I explored the bayous, fields, and swamplands around the subdivision where we lived. I will remember him doing his repertoire of “doggie” tricks to impress visitors, chasing squirrels away from the bird feeders in the backyard, staring plaintively into the house through the French doors when he wanted company or perhaps a milk-bone, and wagging his tail in joy as he did his “Bogie dance” simply because he was so glad to see us each morning.

Sixteen years seems like a long time; but, in reality, it’s so very brief, here and then gone in a heartbeat. Chet and I loved Bogie, and he loved us in return. He was our companion. He was our guardian. He was our friend. And we will miss our Spirit Dog. We always will.