It all started in the spring of eighth grade. My family and I had waited almost a year after the death of our beloved Patches before plunging back into the "dog world."

We went up to the Humane Society looking for a puppy, but left with a two-year-old farm dog whom I christened The Tom.

The Tom is no ordinary pup either. For starters, she's a girl. I agree with everyone that asks if she's gender confused, but something in my 12-year-old self decided to name her that way. It's certainly a good conversation starter, and I always win the 'Two Truths and One Lie' game. One other quirk about The Tom is she's about six feet tall when she stands on her back legs; she's a Great Pyrenees mixed with gargantuan.

It seems a bit sappy to be writing about a doggy, but she is a big part of my life and a force that deserves to be reckoned with. If I had half as much spirit and zest as The Tom, I could win the Miss America pageant ten times in a row.

This same overzealousness is also what prompted me to tell my story. My Grandpa Glen came over for dinner Sunday night, as usual, and was opening the door to leave. The Tom took advantage of my gramp's cautiousness down the front steps and bolted. When The Tom runs, she bounds. She leaps. She looks like a really shaggy horse.

It's not that she doesn't love us, she just wanted to stretch her legs and meet all of the handsome hottie hounds in the neighborhood that might share a strand of spaghetti with her. Perhaps she's just a big, misunderstood, hopeless romantic.

Well, The Tom was nowhere to be found and didn't come home to her dog house that night either, which put my whole house in a tizzy. The Humane Society called the next day to say she was safe and sound, pausing for a bewildered moment before reading her name on our answering machine. "We have ... uhh ... The Tom? with us here?"

I was delegated the task of picking her up and when we returned home, she promptly spoke her mind about what she had been fed. Let's just say the contents of The Tom's tummy were now all over the floor and the grass outside. Oh, the joys of dogs.

We're glad to have her back, and yet, these past two days have been a brief glimpse of what life will be like next year. Having someone to bounce ideas off of who won't ever respond is a helpful tool for a writer. When I start hearing creepy noises, The Tom protects me from banshees and the Boogie Monster. What about next year? A Chia-Pet will simply not suffice.

The Tom even looks contemptuously at the rubber chicken squeak toy we bought her last week. Her intellect is stimulated by something much more exciting than a synthetic annoyance. The Tom enjoys sunbeams and sniffing the new spring air whilst barking at the neighbor dogs. You know those Fancy Feast commercials for ritzy cat food? Yeah, The Tom directed those.

I guess the major message of this anecdotal column is that while we may all have some odd quirks about us, we're all just creatures on this earth trying to stretch our legs.

Think about it, dogs have it all: free food, free room and board, free sunshine and a free carpeted floor to laze about on all day. We should all take lessons from these four legged friends.

Just remember that if you let something you love go, and it comes back, it's yours.

If she doesn't, you may have to sell your soul to get her back because she got a little sidetracked by the smells on the way home.

Either way is fine.