I can attest to this; it has happened.

He is an animal lover and will not so much as kill a bee or lizard that ventures unawares into our home. He will set anything free if it is within his power to do so.

I realize you are wondering why he debated the possum killing in a previous essay. I assure you that was only because he didn’t want to see the possum suffer.

I don’t recall our marriage vows specifically addressing more than “to love and to cherish, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, ’til death do us part.” Apparently, my nervous groom and I missed the part about “I promise to bury every family pet in sunshine or rain, snow, sleet, or hail that meets its demise in my care.”

After the third family pet went to glory, my husband said, “No more dogs. I don’t think I can bury another one.” I knew better.

During a gathering of neighborhood children in our den, someone suggested we get another dog. My eight-year-old son latched onto the idea, but I reminded him of his daddy’s resolve not to have to say last rites for another four-legged friend that would inevitably morph into a family member.

With six squealing, bouncing kids in tow, I drove to the “pound.” Chain-front cages lined both sides of the shelter, and most all of the occupants were cowering in corners or staring directly at us as if they had no expectations of ever escaping their confines. With one exception.

The straggly, dirty, tan-and-white mixed-terrier barked at us wildly with a look of anticipatory glee spreading across his face. The barking should have been the first red flag. He would bark at every doorbell ring for the next 15 consecutive Halloweens. By my calculation, fifteen years of Halloweens with at least 35 doorbell rings per Halloween makes 525 barking tirades. That doesn’t include friends, neighbors, March-of-Dimes volunteers, the Avon Lady, Jehovah Witnesses, and the Lion’s Club salesman. If the doorbell rang, he barked. What a fine specimen this barking dog without a home – until now.

Returning from the pound with our new dog, we all gathered in the den to float suggestions for an appropriate name. I proposed we wait until the dog gave us some inclination as to his personality. But that didn’t set well with the children who screamed the ubiquitous “Spot” and “Frisky” and “Benji.” I admit the dog did resemble Benji of Disney movie fame. However diligent we were, not one name seemed to stick for this particular pooch.

The moment came when we heard my husband’s truck pulling into the driveway. Suddenly, the room got ghostly quiet. All the children were well aware that the daddy of the house had said, in no uncertain terms, there would not be another dog. The back door opened. Not a peep emanated from the group.

Once in the den, my husband stopped short, surprised to see all the neighborhood children huddled so quietly. At first, he took no notice of the dog, but when he did, he glared at the tail-wagging pet, smiled, and said, “Well, hey there . . . SPORT!” The room exploded like cheering crowds at the Westminster Dog Show.

“That’s it,” the children shouted! “His name is Sport.” Sport began to bark in agreement, and the legend was born.

Sport magically worked his way into our hearts. He was a “boy’s dog” and slept with our son at night. He scampered alongside the neighborhood boys and girls playing bicycle chase. He was a frequent tagalong to the local quick mart.

Everyone knew and loved Sport. He got lollipops at the bank and frozen yogurt at TCBY. He dropped in occasionally at the elementary school to visit our son and daughter. In later years, he traveled to All-Star baseball games. He curled up beside me as a comforting snuggler, especially in times of crisis, like when my mother and father died within five months of one another.

My husband once boasted about having administered a “Dog IQ Test” to Sport. It was a test found in Reader’s Digest, granted, but a test just the same. Not surprisingly, Sport’s score placed him one step below genius. What proud parents we were! He had a vocabulary that consisted of some 29 words. Seriously.

Time ceases to exist for a rescue dog. Every minute and every hour of every day is a vacation. It doesn’t matter if you go to the mailbox or to Miami for a month, the greeting is always the same. With Sport, like so many rescue dogs, his heart was exuding gratitude and unconditional love.

While Sport’s love was unconditional for his family, I’m quite sure we loved him in return with equal measure, if not more. Sport savored every blessing, great or small, that came his way. He lavished us with affection and never complained.

The only time this fun-loving guy got into hot water was when he rolled in Eau de Parfum poop, his favorite fragrance. Once, Sport entered the back door and one of us drew a scowl and pointed a finger at him: “Ew, Sport, you’ve rolled in dog poop again!”

He answered with the most brilliant maneuver: he went straight to the bathtub, leaped over the edge, and settled himself for what he knew would be the consequence. The only problem was that he often jumped into the “guest” bathtub. Again came a scolding: “Sport, you’re in the wrong tub!” Wrong tub? No problem. Out he jumped and made his way into the master bathroom tub. How smart is that? One step below genius.

Sport participated in all the major events that made up the intricacies of our lives, from birthday parties to the magic of Christmas to sleepovers to movie nights. When the day came for our son to get a driver’s license, I was happy for my son’s rite of passage, but a bit melancholy. I realized that the chapter of life and love of that once ten-year-old boy, the freedom of his bike, and his dog were forever gone.

Sport managed to live a long, magnanimous life. We bragged that he was the oldest patient (age 19) at the veterinary clinic. Inevitably, his steps faltered; his hearing and eyesight failed. We treated him with an overabundance of love and compassion. He managed to get his favorite food with only a glance in our direction: vanilla ice cream topped with sharp cheddar cheese. When his arthritis became debilitating and our veterinarian gave us one poor prognosis after another, it was clear Sport was running out of treatment options. As a last-ditch heroic effort, the vet suggested a heavy steroidal dosing. He said we would know immediately if the treatment worked. It was a miracle of sorts to see Sport rally and become his old self, but the treatment effects were temporary.

When at last we knew it was Sport’s time, much thought went into ensuring the dignity of those last moments of his considerable life. We settled him quietly in our family room and placed his beloved vanilla ice cream with cheese before him like a last communion. My husband and I, our now-adult son, and Dr. Mike were all there beside Sport.

We whispered our prayers, kissed him goodbye, and loosened the bond we made with him so many years ago; memories, like taut fabric, woven into all of us. Dr. Mike injected that sweet, long-suffering dog, who, we knew, instantaneously romped and barked his way through the heavenly gates, or wherever it is that canine greatness goes.

If only we humans were so caring of one another. How peaceful the end came to Sport. His eyes closed forever even before the needle was removed from his tender, shaggy body. A good dog gone, surrounded by those who loved him best.

As for the burial, Sport was laid to rest with many other once-loved family pets just below a small hill and under a shade tree on our property.

My husband lovingly wrapped Sport’s body in an appropriate blanket which pictured the American flag. After all, he was the quintessential All-American dog, the dog our boy loved so dearly throughout childhood, adolescence, and into adulthood.

While carrying Sport in his arms to the gravesite, his tears unconcealed, my husband turned to me and asked, “Do you want to bury him facing east where Christ will return, or toward the west so that he is facing our home?”

Without the slightest hesitation or doubt, I replied, “To the west, so he faces home.” A good dog gone, but one who knew his place, his home.

-ANN FULLER