Sixteen years ago, Wick gave me a little double handful of fluff, with a little pink tongue and big brown eyes, as a Christmas gift.
We got him from a breeder near Lake Tawakoni.
She lived at the end of a dirt road, in a run-down mobile home. When we knocked on the door, a raucous voice screeched, "Who is it?"
When the door opened, the voice said, "Shut the d--- door!" It was a large parrot, strutting across the top of a big wire cage. Half a dozen tiny Pomeranians skittered into the room, followed by a couple of dust bunnies--their puppies.
We made our selection, and the woman went into another room to write up the paperwork. The parrot screamed, "Don't you sh-- in that floor!"
It was a cold night, so Wick zipped him up in his jacket, with just the little foxy face sticking out under his chin.
We named our furball Frankincense, Frankie for short. He went almost everywhere we went, making every step we made in the house, and patrolling the back yard for intruders.
He was crate trained, and came to view his crate as a safe retreat when our little grandchildren wore him out playing.
For sixteen years he was my companion, my little buddy, my fur baby.
Last Friday morning, we made the final journey with Frankie. He has gone where good dogs go, and I certainly hope we will see him again in Heaven one day.