When I was six I met a puppy. He had a bow around his neck, and a bundle of joy in his heart. He was the very first dog that was prevelent in my memory of dogs. I tried to help train him and I played with him often. I even got to call him my own a few times, until my sister traded my ginea pig back for him. Sometimes I would lock him in a cupboard, or I would leave him outside. But he always loved me anyways, he put all my faults aside. I never knew, how much that meant.
Sometimes he would run away, and we could never tell just why. Until we found a house that he felt was suitable to call home, then he never left. He knew these kinds of things. He was grouchy when he got a new sister, but he loved her anyways. She grew on him after while. As did the other two.
He could never have puppies, maybe it was just never meant to be. That was always part of Banjo's charm. Also, that he could walk up to any person and just look, and of course they would pick him up. No one could deny Banjo, even in his old, scruffy age.
He grew old, and he grew blind. And other things began to take over his body. I knew that his time wouldn't last forever, but I sure wished it would. Sometimes he got under my feet, and sometimes he was a little hard to handle. I regret the times I told him to get out of my way, or ignored the gentle pleas he gave with his nose, just to be held and to be loved. It meant much more than you'll know. He deserved it all. He was the best any family could ask for. He was loving and kind, excepting and sweet, and he could never let you down.
When I got that call, that after twelve years in my life, he was dieing. Tears welled in my eyes, and memories shot to my mind;
and I never knew that a dog, could mean so much.
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