Pippin the Wonderdog died Friday, July 21. He was 11.5 years old. I felt I couldn't make a public announcement until I got hold of my grad school roommate, who lives in far away Minnesota now, but she went with me to see the puppies when they were 4 weeks old. She drove when we brought him home from Brooke Duvall's at 8 weeks, all feet and chest and ears, and we got lost in the fog and the poor little guy drooled all over himself. When she flew out to our wedding, she claimed it was mostly to see Pippin, and I believed her and took no offense. He had that kind of effect on people. He was responsible for my other roommate in grad school, who had never had a pet, getting a dog herself. He was responsible for me breaking up with the loser I was dating when I got him (how could I stay with someone who was jealous of my puppy?) and responsible for me ending up married to the excellent fellow I share the house with now. He was my buddy through the misery of grad school, the excitement of marriage, the nervousness of my first real job, the joy of our first child. He lived in apartments in Virginia and Toronto, and houses in Ohio, and shared them with assorted roommates and foster dogs and other Welsh and never complained so long as he was with me. He didn't have a jealous bone in his body. He introduced me to obedience, and conformation, and lure coursing, and the joy of long walks in the rain, and more great people than I can name. He was my dog.

He loved to go for a ride, go to new places, smell new smells and meet new people. He always jumped out with his tail wagging. Until he was 5, we all rode in the front of the pickup truck. He rode in the middle, sometimes with his head on my leg, sometimes on David's. I could put a hamburger on my other leg and he wouldn't touch it. I usually shared my fries with him, though. He wasn't much for people food, but he liked scrambled eggs and he liked nuts. He loved to go hiking. He stayed on the trail, racing up and back, except that he always did his business *off* the trail. What a gentleman. He loved wading in streams. He loved swimming. He hated camping, though, and as darkness fell he would go sit by the truck or the car with a mournful look that said, "We have a perfectly good bed at home. Why do you want to sleep *here*?"

He loved toys that made noises: the rooster that crowed, the chick that went "peep peep peep". He squeaked his rubber dragon so much that we called it his "voice simulator" and swore he was trying to communicate with it.

He could play dead, and roll over, and shake hands, and give high five, and catch treats off his muzzle. When I sat on the floor, he put the top of his head into my stomach and used it as a pivot to turn himself over for a belly rub. When I lay down, he lay beside me with his head on my chest. When I nursed Shona, he lay with his head on my leg. When I went to bed at night, he put his head on the edge of the bed to get his ears rubbed, then curled up right there where I could reach him. He was never a kisser, but he happily accepted hugs.

He loved puppies. He was a great Uncle Wolf, and when a puppy forgot its manners he would roar and the puppy would scream like it was being killed, but he barely spit on it and he never held a grudge. When Canna began to lose it after repeated bouts of meningitis and seizures, he just followed her orders as she tried to keep her life organized to her satisfaction. When Staffa came, she taught him to play again, and though he would have been happy enough to finish his days as an only dog, it was good to see that joyful social side of him again.

I have 11.5 years of memories, little vignettes in my mind, no room to tell you all of them.

We were away on July 21, but Penny the pet sitter was here. He loved Penny. He sang to her when she came. He liked most people, but he only sang to special people. They went for a walk. He was a bit slower than usual, but he had been the same with me the previous Sunday, and nothing seemed particularly wrong. He came in, had a drink, ate a cookie, and fell over. She tried CPR, but it was no use. He was gone. She took him home with her, curled up as if he was sleeping, and kept him in her freezer for our return. She helped us make arrangements to have him cremated. He looked so peaceful, his paws over his muzzle, the wispy fur on his ears as silky as ever. Thank you, Penny. If you have to lose a dog, there are worse ways, but it is never easy.

On Tuesday we took him to Pandapas Pond, in the Jefferson National Forest, just west of Blacksburg, Virginia. In the first four years of his life, we must have spent hundreds of hours there. There is a new parking lot, a wider, handicapped-accessible trail, new picnic area, but the pond itself is just the same. There were dogs playing on the gravel beach when we arrived, but Staffa was just coming out of heat, so we went around the trail the other way. By the time we got back to that spot, they had gone. Staffa waded and splashed and put her head under water to pick up sunken sticks and swam her first few strokes. Pippin waited at the water's edge, surprisingly heavy in his small can. Shona (5 month old furless one) was happy in her carrier. And then we continued around the pond, and David stood with Shona and Staffa while I walked down the bank to the spot where Pippin swam his first few strokes, so many years ago, and I poured him slowly into the water, and then we left.

If you're ever driving Highway 460 west of Blacksburg, stop at Pandapas, and throw a stick as far out into the middle as you can. Don't be surprised to see a red & white Welsh with a heart of gold swimming to it. Then throw another one for your dog. Pippin will share his pond. He didn't have a jealous bone in his body.

Pippin was officially Am/Can Ch Bentcroft Evan Peleryn, Am/Can CD.