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When I was a kid we had this little black dog, maybe a type of Cocker Spaniel or a Poodle of sorts, whose name was Spunky. He was always playful, and pretty much just your average canine buddy... loyal, barky, a sloppy kisser; the typical stuff that qualifies a family pet. He used to love to lick the back of our hands for some reason, and we'd squeal and giggle every time he did. I was only seven or so and don't remember as much as I'd like to, but I do know I took for granted he'd never do anything "un-family dogish" like hurt anyone, until he almost did.

That being said, in addition to the playing and related good times, I have one very vivid memory of Spunky, and that's riding with him in the car to the vet along with my parents and my younger sister. My dad was driving and my mom was in the passenger seat, which left my sister and me straining against our seat belts in the back of our white 1981 Chrystler so we could get a glimpse of the now snarling, drooling, spitting dog at my mom's feet. He was muzzled, and from his crazy behavior, apparently in desperate need of an exorcism.

"Mommy, what's wrong with Spunky!?" I said.

"He's sick, honey. He's just sick."

"Does he have mean sickness?"

"Yes. Yes, that's what he has. He's doesn't want to be mean, but he can't help it."

"Can the vet fix him?"

There was a long pause.

"He's been sick a long time, but we'll see what the vet can do."

Spunky snarled and hissed then - actually hissed! I didn't know a dog could do that! - at my mom's feet, biting and clawing at his muzzle. Even his breathing sounded like junkyard, 'I will eat your face off ' growls, and as I'm sure you've gleaned by now he'd recently started snapping at us, which prompted the visit to the vet.

For as scary as he was while spastically rolling around and making demonic noises there in the front seat foot well, it didn't occur to me until years later how much pain he must have been in to suddenly go from a beloved member of our family to something I didn't, and couldn't even recognize anymore. Thinking about all this now I feel a little guilty for not having more compassion for him at the time, but I guess fear is a powerful thing when you're seven. I guess it's a powerful thing no matter what your age, really.

We left the vet without Spunky that day. He stayed there "for treatment" my mom told us, and when she said we couldn't visit him, I rationalized in my seven-year-old mind it was because she didn't want us to catch the mean sickness too. For some reason

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