Really his name is Lincoln because he's a very dignified dog. He deserves respect because he cared for each of us, he held his head up high and he, as they say, loved us unconditionally. He was actually my son Ansel's dog, but like I say, he gave us all his love just the same.

He would look steadily in your eyes, just letting you know he trusted you and you could trust him. He wasn't a silly, wimpy dog and he only barked when he meant business. For some reason he thought skate boards were predators, and he always valiently--even somewhat viciously--defended the family against any neighbor on a skateboard. To Lincoln the skateboard was by definition evil in intent.

Lincoln's proudest moments were when called upon to ride in the car. He considered it his job to make sure nothing dangerous was approaching. He would stand with his hind legs on the lap of the person in the passenger seat and his front legs on the dash. His chest would puff out and he would glare intently into the distance in front of the car. The car would remain safe if his last breath depended on it.

If I wanted to excercize Lincoln, all I had to do was say over and over in an excited voice, "Run around! Run around!" He would jump into action, running at top speed in tight circles, making sure the area was completely free of possible threats. He could keep it up much longer than I could urge him on.

Once everything was confirmed to be just fine, Lincoln would flop down on his side for a much needed and deserved rest, his legs would be straight out, and he would be flat on the deck like he was ready to run lying down.

That's how my youngest found him this morning, taking his much needed and much deserved rest. His perpetual little smile was still on his lips. But if you bent down really close, there was no life left in those eyes. He was spent, and he was gone.