It was August 1994. I was 7 years old. My sister was only 8 months old. My Dad came home from work while I was outside jumping rope in our front yard. His door swung open and a tiny black ball of fur hopped out. It was our dog. He'd brought him home without telling my mom. I was so excited. We sat on the front steps and thought of names for him. The Little Rascals remake had just come out that summer and we decided Rascal was the perfect name. He became a member of our family. He loved to ride in the car with his feet on the hump dump and the wind in his face. One time he was chewing on a bone and I went up behind him and he bit me on the nose. He used to run laps around our living room when guests would come over. One night he got skunked and had to spend the night outside. He'd look away when he was getting in trouble so he didn't get scolded. If I took him outside without a leash he would run halfway down the street chasing God knows what, but he never would do that for my dad. He loved to sleep in my bed under the covers. After I left home he would sleep in my sister's room and would wait outside her door in the hall for her to go to bed. His favorite place was my Grandma & Grandpa's house. We would put him in the car to head out there and he would get so excited once we turned to head into her neighborhood. He used to run back into the house when my mom would try to put him in the car to head home. His favorite thing was boat rides. He used to ride on top of the front bench on the pontoon boat. He loved it at Grandma's house. This Saturday he died there. We buried him in her flower bed next to my Grandma's dog, Ginger. He was 18 years and 9 months old.
He was my brother. He was loved.
(through tears I laughed out loud when I saw this picture of our poor dog in these ridiculous USA pants)
You were a really great dog, Rascal.
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