Savannah came into our lives a bit over fourteen years ago. One of eight puppies squeezed out by her purebred Cocker Spaniel mother, she was the result of an ill-advised daliance between said cocker and a sraggily neighborhood poodle (one with that crusty stuff around his eyes), making Savannah a cockapoo, which sounds like condition you might find yourself in after a bit o' the ol' anal sex.

Nary a week after the puppies' birth, we arrived home to find them alone, their mother nowhere to be found. After a thorough search of the yard, we discovered her next to the fence with the evil neighbors--dead. I'll never forget seeing my father lift her lifeless body from the grass--she was as stiff as anything a taxidermist would prepare. We put her lifeless corpse into a garbage bag, ostensibly so my father could take her out to a barren patch of land on the outskirts of the city and bury her, but I like to think that she probably just ended up in a Dumpster somewhere. Or maybe not. Who knows? That secret has gone to the grave with my father, who is most definitely properly buried.

The fact that their mother was dead left us in a quandary about the puppies. How would we take care of them? No one we knew was lactating, so feeding them would be a chore. Besides, I doubt even if we knew someone that was lactating that we'd be able to convince them to allow eight cockapoo puppies suckle at their teats. We consulted with a vet, who suggested mixing puppy chow with water and pureeing it in a blender, then feeding them with a turkey baster. It seemed to work and before long we had an active, happy litter of puppies running amok in our yard. The decision was made that we'd keep one puppy and give away the rest. The cutest one was chosen and given the name Savannah, a nod to the Deep South that, in retrospect, seems somewhat inexplicable.

The puppies continued to grow as we waited until they were old enough to take out an ad in the Thrifty Nickel, advertising them to "good homes". We had a small scare when we went outside one day to discover one of Savannah's eyes oozing a milky liquid and looking slightly deflated--she'd apparently decided it was a good idea to poke her eye on something. The vet, upon examination, assured us she'd be okay, with only a slight scar on her eye left over after she'd healed.

She quickly healed and it wasn't long before her siblings found "good homes" and we were left alone with Savannah. Over the years, she proved to be a great pet, always playful and good-natured. As she was an outdoor dog and since we sometimes put off her grooming for long periods of time, she sometimes resembled a dirty walking bath mat, but we still loved her.

She was always there waiting for me when I came home, be it from high school or college or, in the last few years, when I'd visit from Dallas. We'd throw a tennis ball around and maybe she'd chase squirrels or dig in the garden. Alas, in the last couple of years, it was obvious that old age was starting to catch up with her. It'd become apparent that she was somewhat blind and deaf, but that never discouraged her playfulness, once you got her attention. And her sense of smell never faded, as she proved on more than one occasion to be particularly adept at sniffing out copperheads, which she'd bark at until one of us was able to get a hoe or shovel and kill it.

A couple of months ago, my mother took her to the vet to be groomed and for a checkup. The vet acknowledged that she was getting old and said that she maybe had a year left in her. A few weeks ago, I was in Tyler and she seemed to be fairly energetic, acting like the puppy that I once knew so long ago. But I could tell that time was taking its toll. Over the last couple of weeks, my mother reported that she was getting worse. She wasn't getting around well or she wasn't eating. We knew that it wouldn't be long.

Earlier tonight, my cellphone rang. I answered it--it was mom. I could tell something was wrong when she first spoke--it's just one of those things you can tell about your loved-ones. I asked her what was wrong and she replied that she'd had Savannah put to sleep. Apparently she'd gone out tonight to feed her and Savannah wouldn't--or couldn't--move. She just laid there. So mom wrapped her in a blanket and took her to the animal ER. The vet said he could give her something to maybe keep her alive a few days, but my mom wouldn't hear of it. Always one to know when to let go, mom made the decision to have Savannah put to sleep--she couldn't let our poor dog continue to suffer.

I'd like to think that there's a dog heaven (after all, Don Bluth ensured us that all dogs go there) and Savannah's up there running around, chasing squirrels borrowed from squirrel heaven. But I'm fairly certain that that's not the case. And sure, I'm a bit sad, but, like mom, I wouldn't want Savannah to suffer. It'll be weird to go home to mom's to find an empty yard with an empty food dish and water bowl and no walking bath mat chasing the birds and the squirrels.

Oh well, life goes on...for some of us.