James A. Bloom, a South Florida pioneer, and an internationally known orchid grower, passed away, at the age of 86, during the summer of 2001. Bloom was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico in 1915. James Bloom, "Jim," to those who knew him, was active in developing the horticulture of the South Florida area spanning 4 decades, beginning in the mid 1940s. Bloom, an avid amateur photographer, was a skilled craftsman, cabinet maker, auto mechanic, welder, musician, and an American Orchid Society judge. (Jim Bloom was always inventing something to use in the nursery, he and his wife Leona started in 1946. In 1968, he actually invented "a better mouse trap.")

  The nursery, and its grounds, including a florist shop, was like a tropical garden, with exotic plants and animals of all description. The nursery became well known for orchids, exotic palms, dichondra grass, Rhapis palms and rare imported plants from the pacific trench. There was a full-grown Hood Island, Galapagos Tortoise (150+ pounds), named "Pee Wee," dozens of box turtles, rescued from the path of oncoming motorists on South Florida's highways and byways, a banana turtle, named Pierre (about the size and shape of a bowling ball, and black with yellow crescent-shaped stripes), rare tropical fish, a 10-foot Indian rock python, four African geese, two named "boric" and "acid," a young alligator (3-foot long), which had been shot over the right eye, by a hunter with a .22 caliber rifle, a male raccoon, who went by the name, "Cootnik," and lived at the nursery for 22 years, a toucan, a Mullacan Cockatoo, several types of exotic parrots and a red macaw named Bob. (The alligator was transported to the nursery to be nursed back to health--how do you nurse an alligator?--very carefully!)

.

Pee Wee--1976

 

Pierre

  (The nursery was home for all manner of injured and abandoned animals, and with all its attractions, it was a weekend gathering place for orchid hobbyists and animal lovers for 35 years. (The Nursery was sold in 1980, and the land the nursery was on is now part of a city park--Middle River Terrace Park.)

.
i
Maluccan Cockatoo--1975
(Birds)  (one minute to download at 28.8K)

   Jim Bloom first visited South Florida in 1937, and moved his family to the area in 1943. On June 6, 1951, the first meeting of the Fort Lauderdale Orchid Society (FLOS) was held at the Bloom home and nursery. Those present were Johnny Edwards (pres. 55-56), Primo Buso (pres. 56-57), Ed Thomasen, Ed Gilman, and Jim, Leona and Gary Bloom. At the meeting, it was decided that the first president of the society would be Dr. Willard Machle.

.

"The Freeze of '77"--January 27, 1977
(more plants, and Pee Wee at dinner time--approximately one minute to download at 28.8k)

   During the period between 1950 and 1978, the Blooms exhibited in area orchid shows, winning many awards, among them, top honors for "best in show" in the Miami International Orchid Show at Bay Front Park Auditorium, in 1953. Bloom's award winning entry was Vanda Sanderiana, 'Bloom's Ideal'--86 points and a silver medal. (A grower from Hawaii flew in for the show, and promptly offered $1,500 for the plant, a substantial sum for a single plant in 1953, when Cattleya orchids of blooming size, planted in a clay pot, could be bought for from $5 to $10.)

.

Vanda Sanderiana 'Bloom's Ideal' June 1953, SM/SFOS 86 pts

   There were three large Litchi Chinensis trees and two picnic areas: When Middle River Terrace Park was laid out in the mid 1990s, the planners chose the same site, for gatherings and picnics as did the Bloom family. The original picnic grounds began 10 feet northwest of the present site of the pavilion, and extended across the drive. One picnic table and hibachi was shaded by two large Litchi trees, with a second picnic table, under the cypress tree and the third Litchi tree, across the drive, to the south. The third Litchi tree and the cypress tree are in the same location now as then. (The two remaining trees are located about half-way along the southern boundary of the park, near the inside corner of the wooden fence. The Bromeliads in the cypress tree today were placed there by Jim Bloom in 1950.)

.

The picnic area was sheltered by two large Litchi trees--1978

 (Some of the palms and trees, from the nursery, are still there today, and one palm in particular, towers majestically over the neighborhood. In 1979, an effort was made to encourage the city to make the nursery, and the adjacent property on the north, into a park, but there was not enough interest to go forward with a project.)

   There have been a lot of changes to the area in and around what is the park today. Further back in time, in 1920, a hotel stood on the hill (Holly Hill) near the east end of the park, and the Old Dixie Highway cut diagonally across the land that is now the play area of McGinnis School, passing on the west side of the hotel. (The original roadway ran through where the pavilion and maintenance building are today.)

 (In the 1940s and 1950s, Holly Hill, at 12 feet above sea level, was considered the second highest point of land in Fort Lauderdale. The land around the Gateway theater was three feet higher. Up until the late 1960s, when the land was filled and apartments were constructed, the land across the street, to the east of Middle River Terrace Park, was one of the oldest abandoned rock quarries in the county, not having been worked since the 1920s. In fact, the earth may have been plowed up to form Holly Hill, but much more was removed from the quarry than would have been needed for such a project. Possibly, the bulk of it was used to elevate low lying areas, the intent being, to get the foundations of newly constructed homes above the high water mark. Unfortunately, in 1947, flooding rains, accompanying a hurricane, inundated all of greater Fort Lauderdale, except for the "Gateway prominence" and the ground around the "peak" of Holly Hill. It took a week for the flood water to recede, and for a short time, over 90% of the houses in the county had water in the living room, some as much as 3 feet above the door sill.)

   Over the years, an avid interest in plant genetics moved the Blooms to grow and/or create many orchid hybrids: Vanda, Ascocenda, Cattleya, Laeiocattleya, Oncidium, Dendrobium, Broughtonia, Brassodiacrum and Miltonia. (Between 1950 and 1978, Bloom's Nursery was one of the most successful and most awarded Vanda and red Cattleya growers and hybridizers in the world--157 blue ribbons and certificates for flower quality, and 30 trophies, certificates and plaques for show exhibits, and for "best in show." Very often, the varietal names were 'Leona,' 'Gary,' or 'Jablo,' and there were varietal names and new plant names which suggested lofty and grand expectations (e.g. 'Bountiful,' 'Lucky Strike,' 'Color Plus,' 'Glory B,' 'Fort Lauderdale,' 'Harvest Moon,' 'Bloom's Pride,' 'Sultan's Ruby' and 'Royal Emperor'), but most often, the varietal name was 'Bloom's Ideal.'

   In the 1970s, the family business expanded into another area--breeding, hand-raising and marketing rare and exotic birds: Sun Conure, Genday Conure, Sunday Conure--a hybrid they developed, Cockatoos, award winning Pearly-pied cockatiels, and, African gray, Bavarian and Eclectis parrots.

.

Laeliocattleya Autumn Symphony 'Bloom's Ideal'  HCC/AOS 77 pts, November 18, 1961
(more orchids: a memorial collection--approximately three minutes to download at 28.8k)

   A man of many talents ("The Three Whistlers"): On Sunday, September 26, 1937, Jim and Leona Bloom were married in Covington, Indiana, and then drove on a honeymoon trip from Urbana, Illinois to Chicago to see Perry Como and Elmo Tanner perform at the Aragon Ballroom. (Elmo Tanner is the whistler famous for the 1930s recording "Nola.") When they arrived, Elmo Tanner was off for the evening, so friends who traveled with the newlyweds to the big city encouraged Jim to get up on stage and whistle Tanner's hit recording. As fine as any polished performer, Bloom rose to the occasion and whistled "Nola," just before Perry Como went on. At the end of the performance, Perry came out, and joined in the applause. The two spoke briefly, and Perry encouraged my father to whistle professionally. (Perry Como was always a big favorite around our house.)

   The evening continued with Perry singing some of his hits. (The third whistler: Because of the prominence of his upper register, in the early years--the 1930s, Perry Como was sometimes affectionately called the "boy whistler." Como's voice was younger and higher pitched, in that era, than most of us who have heard his later recordings or who have seen his weekly television program, "The Kraft Music Hall," in the 1950s, or who have seen his almost 40-year procession of holiday specials, would be aware of.) Sixty three years later, Perry Como and Jim Bloom passed away, one month to the day, apart at the ages of 89 and 86 respectively, both residents of South Florida. (In addition to Bloom's talents as a whistler, he was accomplished on the banjo and on the Hohner 64 Chromonica, a 4-octave harmonica.)

.

   Jim Bloom's favorite story was of seeing Red Grange run 5 touchdowns in 12 minutes in Illini stadium in 1926. His father, Raymond was a championship marksman and the secretary to the first US Senator from the state of New Mexico. His grandfather, also a resident of South Florida, developed embalming and curing techniques, still used today, while working for Reese Taxidermy, in Miami, in the 1920s. Most of the mounted fish seen in South Florida banks, restaurants and public buildings, up until the mid 1970s, were his work.

   Bloom's love of living things never weakened. In his final year, at the age of 86, he was as sharp as ever, and actively involved in a project to develop and breed Turquoise Discus, an exotic tropical fish.

.

 

-   -   -
Before there were Turquoise Discus,
there were Pandas and frogs, and roosters, and parrots, and beetles!
(menagerie)
(approximately three minutes to download at 28.8k)
-   -   -

   James A. Bloom passed away on Tuesday, June 12, 2001, preceded in December of 1998, by his wife of 61 years, Leona Shirley Bloom. The Blooms are survived by their son, Gary, and by a Chinese Pug named Honey.

.
y
"Supreme Commander of the Universe"
(Who Was Honey?)
-   -   -

    (The New Place)  (approximately two minutes to download at 28.8k)

    ("Cold Protection")     --     (Constructing a Shade House)

    (Tropical Gardening Report)     --     (Orchid Calendar)

    (This way to FLOS: The Early Years)

    (This way to the "library index")
 
 

  When I started restoring the house, after my father died, I was busy for hours on end, and I remember the good times, visiting friends with Honey, but it is hard to remember much about Honey when the work was being done, in that period. After a few days, I realized that I had blocked it out, but to some extent, the effects of an old head injury also impaired, and still continues to impair, my memory. (There were so many problems, it was sickening to think of that time.) Someone in better health might have been able to step back and take it in stride, but I was exhausted to the point of not being able to see what was going wrong. I was thinking things would be better down the road, when I already had all that mattered.

   That head injury, more than 20 years ago, took away a piece of me, that is not yet fully recovered. It was once much worse--it was a struggle from minute to minute for many years. Twenty two doctors could not figure it out. (After a few days of writing this down, I recalled that when I was fixing furniture, washing ceilings and painting base boards, in the early days and weeks, Honey was curled up on the sofa, in the family room, waiting for me to get done and spend time with her. To have gone through so much, and then lose Honey, is a terrible disappointment. Honey was safe when the going was at its worst. She was never outside without a leash!

   Later, when I was in and out all day long, I was constantly on the lookout for Honey and ran almost frantically to the front yard when she seemed to be on the loose (had disappeared). The street was where I did not want her, so I went there first. Most of the time she came out behind me, through the door that I just passed through. She came out to see what I wanted. Sometimes she would just stop and look out at me and yawn, as if to say whatta you want? I was very relieved to see her, and most of the time that is where she was. So, she was not always locked in, but she was usually just a few feet away. I don't know where she had been, but she had a place somewhere in the house that I had not looked. (Only about 20-30 cars go by the house in a day's time, and I kept her in at rush hour, and when other dogs took their walk.)

   One door, while it closed tightly, did not always "click," and "Honey" figured out how to push it open. It was always tight, and she had to really "heave to" to get it open, but she was getting better at it. I would look around while working with the orchids, and see she was out--the first time she did that I was surprised when she appeared beside me. Honey was an "escape artist."

    I will never know where Honey was when she disappeared, but was still in the house. That happened several times a week for the last several months. But most often, she was in "her spot" on the sofa. (She was so funny. Sometimes, I would come in from the yard and she would be sitting there, erect, on her haunches, with her front paws hanging down in front of her and looking very much like a sumo wrestler.)

   After a long day, we would go shopping or to dinner at Jeanne's or to Jim and Nancy's. (Nancy taught Honey to speak.) Honey was almost always on the leash, or if it was cool, and we were "on the town," I could shop and leave her tucked safely in the car. (Honey loved the harness and leash. She did a dance whenever I pulled it out.)

   When we needed groceries, I took her along with me. Sometimes, I would get out of the car, lock up, start for the entrance to the store, turn around, go back and knock on the passenger door window, often she had already moved over to sit in my seat. When we were driving along in traffic, she always wore her seat belt. (The car had an auto seat belt, and when I closed the door, it came up to hold Honey in place, she sat there motionless and alert--ready to travel.) I would bring back things like ground turkey, cheese, ice cream and fish, and she would sniff the packages, and amazingly, I could leave her there, guarding such morsels, while I was away from the car at the next stop. She never riffled a bag, no matter how good it smelled. Honey had will power!

  As time went on, I became more exhausted, and more lenient, when she got out, but she was getting better about staying close to me. I used to be after her in a second, when she bolted, but I slowly lost the will to chase her down.

   Working against my keeping her inside and safe, was the fact that she loved kids, and I felt guilty for not letting her out to see them, and for not taking her on more walks. Still, it is doubtful that had to do with what went wrong. Most mistakes were not caused by conscious or logical decisions...the situation slowly got out of control.

   Honey did not get out of the house until she was 6 months old. The first time I walked her, she was like a tiny tractor tugging and pulling me down the street ("the little dog that could"). It was amazing that a dog weighing barely 8 pounds was so rugged and so determined to see what the world holds for her, just around the next corner. She decided sometime late in her second year that she would stay at my side, more or less...at least, the "stump pulling" came to an end. Of course, all bets were off when she spied a group of children or some other dog, out for a stroll with its owner.

   For every minute of her life, Honey hurried to greet anyone and everyone. (Honey had spells where she was agressive, and then for a few months she was more reticent and afraid of other dogs. When she was agressive she would go after a Doberman or a large Shepard--of course, she was always bluffing, and when she was timid, a hairy little T-cup terrier, named "Sweet Pea," surely weighing less than 5 pounds, could send her 24-pound "bull dog frame" to the safety of my shadow in an instant.

   In the summertime it was too hot for either of us. So, we often walked late at night, and she was always ready to go. When I pulled out her harness and reached down to put it on, she was ecstatic, and turned in a circle in front of me until she stuck her head into it. She then stood perfectly still while I fumbled with the buckle. (Any new little dog will have to love children like Honey did! And lift her leg like a boy, and have 13 wrinkles on her face, and walled eyes, with teeth showing, just like Marty Feldman, and just sit there and stare at me to get my attention, like the RCA dog, waiting patiently to hear "her" master's voice.

   When Honey was ready for action, very often at about 11 p.m., she would come and sit by me, and stare, or gaze, intensely, hoping to make eye contact. I usually decided it was a walk she wanted, maybe just to get out and pee, but sniffing at every trace of another dog was her greatest joy. I would say that word, "w-a-l-k," and she would "flip out." Many times, and too often, when she would come and sit by me, I kept working on the computer, but I intended to take more time one day soon to figure out every sign and signal. She was like a little person, who could not quite talk. (The things I put off doing upset me the most. I wish I had stopped and played with her every time she sat beside me, wide-eyed and hoping for attention.) Honey was innocent.

   I worked late into the night and Honey never let her "clock" slip into my bad habits. She would nap beside me on the floor near the computer, and when I finally rose from the computer and reached for the light switch, she knew it was that time, and she scurried into the bedroom, jumped on the bed and ran around in the pillows and sheets as I approached. Bed time was a festive moment to Honey. Maybe I will miss that most. I always said, soon I would get on a more normal time table, and let Honey get to bed earlier. Honey could tell time.

   She would do this "staring bit" at Jim and Nancy's, or at Jeanne's, for dinner, and it seemed that she just wanted to go outside and explore. ("Let's go daddy--I'm done here!") If I had been healthier, surely I would have paid more attention and investigated her efforts to communicate more thoroughly, but I was tired and not in control enough to be that logical.

   When I left a pot of something on the "burner," and went to the den to wait, I would get engrossed in working on the computer. Honey waited in the kitchen, near the stove. When it was "well done," she came to the den and buzzed around me till I realized there was "something in the air." (I was so absentminded that sometimes I would smell food burning and still not remember there was something cooking.) When I was slow to catch on, she would grumble, or bark sharply, and fuss with me, while scurrying around my chair.

  When we went for walks, in the daytime, and there were lawns being watered, Honey would bite at the water, spraying from the sprinkler heads, but when we were home, and I turned on the sprinklers or even picked up a hose to water some plant, she headed for high ground. She would be following me down the walk, and suddenly realize I was going to release the "water monster," and she skedaddled out of the way.

   On one evening's walk, Honey did the most extraordinary thing. She always lifted her left leg to pee, and will probably find herself in Guiness Book of Records, for this one! On this occasion, she inadvertently lifted her right leg, and while she was "in the act," she apparently decided the wrong leg was up, and tried to raise the left one, but at the same time. (This all happened in barely a second.)

   There was a moment when there was nothing under her but air. When the left leg came up, she started to shake from the shear physical stress. The right leg came down (trembling), in an effort to keep from falling into the grass, rear first. I doubted my eyes, and expect never to see such a thing again, but, she was "trembling," and clearly, she did switch legs in "midstream."

   After my dad's passing at age 86, in June of 2001, and until the last few months, whenever she got loose, and I caught up with her, Honey would crouch in fear, most probably because she remembered that my dad, in his declining months, spanked her pretty severely, at least once that he admitted to. It was for slipping out of the house. He was terrified at her "bolting to freedom," and did not seem to know what else to do. When he told me about it that night, he was remorseful, and was quaking a bit when he said there had been a one-sided battle, but he said that she came to him after hiding in her kennel for some time, and they made up.

  I had been away until dark that day, and he was waiting for me to come home so he could confess to what had happened. When I arrived and entered the house, there was the smell and feel of something having gone wrong. Honey was subdued and out of sorts, the way you felt when you were a child and wanted to be forgiven for some mistake, and have it over with. Whatever it was, he had not done quite enough to make it right. He did the best he could.)

    Whenever Honey "bolted to freedom," after my dad passed away, I was faced with the dilemma of recovering her highness ("Supreme Commander of the Universe," I called her), on such "expeditions." Whether she was on a foray, harassing a passing dog and dog owner, or happily greeting someone without a dog, especially a child, I would reach down to pick her up, and she would crouch down and press herself flat against the ground, batting her eyes, shuddering, and flicking her little tongue out desperately, hoping to get through whatever might happen next. It was so upsetting and so sad! When I reached her compact little 24 pound frame, if someone was there, I had to laugh nervously and say "she does that all the time, like I am going to beat her!" (It was embarrassing to be in that position, and in his prime, my dad loved animals dearly. It was sad to see him "shrink" from being a gentle guardian and keeper of living things. In his life, he raised and nurtured many different types of animals: Alligator, Indian python, Toucan, galapagos tortoise, parrot, macaw, box turtles, cockatoo, cockatiel, tropical fish, African geese, and 4 dogs before Honey.)

   I knew she was traumatized and would talk to her reassuringly as I approached to defuse her anxiety and fear, but she was still apprehensive. (I could see how my dad could have lost control for a few minutes. Sometimes, I yelled at her from a few yards away when she rushed at cars, but it rarely phased her. It certainly did not change her ways, but I felt bad about shouting and making her feel like she was in some kind of trouble. I always thought there would be time to make it up to her.)

   Some decisions were subconscious, and maybe this problem was part of why I let her run free as much as I did. I did not like to bring the memory of that trauma back to her or do anything to add to her fears. We were getting past all that, and it might have been a few more months before she felt completely secure from being punished for doing her "escape act." (There would have been more time to reassure her if a safer path had been followed. The simple solution was to keep her locked inside when I was working outside--no skirting of the rules should have taken place! My dad was failing and made mistakes, but Honey was safe while he was alive.)

   She was doing much better, but was not yet feeling entirely secure in her environment when she had to leave. (There were other factors, but you could say, my reluctance to chase her, because of the feelings it stirred in us both, and not wanting to leave her, locked inside alone, when I was preoccupied outside, increased the risk.)

   It was often 100 degrees in the front yard, in the summertime, but I could open the front door, and she would lie on the doormat, just inside with full force of a 3 ton air conditioner at her back, and watch me putter in the front yard. She was safe like this, because she would stay inside by choice. (It was her preference--she new the heat was too much for her.) So, the potential risk was highest when the cooler evening hours approached, and the 4 wheelers and the bigger dogs were on the prowl. I always locked her in before that hour, but not that day.

   In order to watch me, when I was in the backyard, usually in mid day, she also had a plan for stationing herself similarly in the outflow of the AC, exiting the doorway on the cooler north side of the house. I would work there with the back door open, and even though it was 15 degrees cooler, in the shady confines of the back yard, than in the front yard, it was still unpleasantly hot for a little dog, and me too. When I turned and saw that she was there watching me, I spoke to her and she wagged her tail, but I kept working. She would periodically come out while I was in the slat house, visit for a few moments and then go back inside. I wish I had stopped what I was doing and gone in the house with her to rest and visit and play. Many days, I hardly spoke to her while I was working.

  There is a downside to keeping a little dog inside. She dearly loved everyone, and everyone loved her. She greeted everyone who passed by, and ran to welcome the kids across the street when they came home. She was a lover of human kind, and no dog was better with little kids. So, even with her tucked safely inside, and my taking breaks from my chores to check on her, I would want to let her see other people.

   It is all the more painful to lose Honey, because she was so good and so innocent--"just like a 2 year old." For the first several days after the accident, every time I sat or lied down, I instinctively and reflexively prepared for her to jump up beside me. Going in and out of doors was a task with her around and underfoot, but now, approaching any door in the house brings her to mind. She was just a pup, and if she had lived longer, I would feel bad, to eventually lose her, but could say she had time to grow and see more of the world. With all the house breaking problems in the past, and her growing up for 3-3/4 years our relationship was mellowing. Strangely, it was like there were two dogs, the "car/dog chasing" (aggressive) outside dog, that I was controlling more poorly as time went on, and the little creature that lied beside me in bed, and loved me so dearly.

   When I made soup, Honey licked the pot, and before my bowl was empty, I put it down for her to finish. Every evening, as I passed through the living room, on my way to the kitchen, I looked for her, sitting there on the sofa. (Mushroom soup, was her favorite, and mine too.)

   I had thought about getting Honey a playmate in December of her last winter, and I decided not to because she seemed so upset and threatened whenever another dog visited our house, with friends. At the time, I felt, "if I got a second dog, Honey would never be the same" So, I scrapped that idea, and let her have the run of the place, and with so much packed and standing in the house, she had more room outside. If there were two dogs it seems to me that I would never have let either of them out. I guess that is because the danger would have been more obvious--hindsight.

   The first time we had broiled Salmon fillet, she really clambered for her share. I put down the plate, and went in the bedroom. In a few minutes she jumped up in the bed, and came to me to say thank you. She was content to the point of bliss. She was so relaxed and at peace. She obviously needed more meat in her diet. We had Salmon about once a week after that and we were overdue when she had to leave. (Like me, Honey was a "mixed oxidizer" and relished in having Canola Oil poured over her food. Mixed oxidizers require 1/3 of their diet to be in fats and 1/3 in protein. If Honey did not get enough oil in her diet, her fur came out in patches.)

   I always looked over my shoulder to see if Honey was watching me, whenever I left the room or moved around, and she always was. But now I look at her place on the sofa, and it seems like I never looked back at her enough, and that I should have gone to her more often! Honey made the days pass, and she got me through the hardest of times.

   When I was on the computer, Honey curled up on a pillow, on the floor, near my chair. There were two pillows, so I could lie beside her, or she could lye on whichever she preferred. I would occasionally rise to walk the few feet to the adjoining bathroom, and she would follow, sit beside me, and yawn. It was all planned out. She always sat down in the same way, and in the same place, and yawned. Then she looked up at me, and then at the floor, until it was time for me to return to my chair, and her to the pillow. (When I feel tired in the evening, it instinctively comes to me that it would be a good time to lye on the floor beside Honey and talk to her. Honey was ever present.)

  If I stayed in bed, Honey did too. Amazingly, she could go all night without peeing--better than me! She loved treats like pizza, red delicious apple, popcorn, ice cream, 100% whole wheat bread and American cheese, hard cheeses like Muenster/Monterey Jack and Mozzarella, watermelon, peanut butter and even bananas. I did not give her much banana, but I think she only wanted it because I was eating it. (When a door bell rang on TV, she barked at our front door, one night the door bell on the TV rang, and she barked two or three times, then, she stretched her neck, with her little pug nose in the air, and howled.)

  The week my mom passed away, my dad said he had always wanted a Chinese Pug. I went and found Honey, and gave her to him the same day, Honey was intended to help him deal with the loss of my mother, but on his final day, 2 years and 5 months later, Honey turned away at the thought of entering my father's room. (I can still remember her expression as she lowered her head and hurried away from the bedroom door, head down.) She knew something was wrong, and would not see him off. She had never seen anything like it in her 31 months.

   About one night a week, for the last year or more of my father's life, the three of us would sit in his bed and eat fresh popcorn, with movie theater butter. Honey searched the folds of the sheet, like a bloodhound, for every kernel and tidbit. (We had not thought of popcorn, but on a visit to Jim and Nancy's, in Honey's second year, Nancy brought us each a bowl, and from then on we had popcorn at home regularly. We had some good times.)

  I was talking to Jeanne, the night before it all ended, at dinner, with Honey, as usual, the guest of honor, and Honey was intensely staring at me. I said, why does she watch me constantly, like that. Jeanne said, "it must be because she remembers your dad dying, and is afraid of losing you too." (I always took Honey with me when I went to Jeanne's for dinner.)

   When I returned home from Jeanne's the last Wednesday night, we settled in, and I soon became hilariously amused with Honey's antics. She was howling again, and I called Jeanne to tell her about it. I also told Jeanne, there was an occasion or two in bed, with my dad, when Honey started howling (baying at the moon, as it were), maybe 18 months before. My dad said it made him feel really strange, as though Honey thought he was dead. He lived just 4 more months, and we had no inkling he had cancer at the time. (There will never be another like Honey. Many times, in recent months, I thought there would be just the two of us. When, I drive by a house and see a project underway, I think of what needs done here, and that Honey wonít be there if and when I get things under control. I hoped to celebrate every victory with the little dog.

   As my health improves, and I feel more aware, it comes back to me again and again. It is like the "new me" has to deal with what has happened all over again, like it just happened. Knowing that I would still be overwhelmed and in a daze if not for the shock and everything that followed losing Honey, adds to the burden of knowing I was not able to keep Honey safe. I canít believe that I did not scoop her up like the treasure she was, and never let her loose in the front yard.)

    I could not go anywhere in the house without Honey glued to my right ankle. There she was hurrying along in unison, almost literally attached to me, wanting to be right there when anything happened. (In or out of the house, we went everywhere together--we were a team--there were many adventures ahead for us to try.) This is probably the most difficult memory to recall.

    When we were in the front yard, and joggers and cyclists and small boys on skate boards passed by the house, Honey would greet them at the east property line, and "come about" to adjust her speed and trot along side, hence escorting them to the west property line. She would then stop and watch them disappear around the corner. (Recalling seeing her standing there, watching passersby disappear around the corner is very painful. The loss of such innocence and devotion is terrible.) Honey was on the job.

   Honey learned that the "buzz" of a mosquito around her head was not a good thing. Whenever she heard one, she snapped it up in an instant. Honey kept the house clear of mosquitos.

   Honey was genetically and naturally more aggressive than most pugs--she was a bull dog, but not a pit bull. Everyone thought she was a boy. Even I referred to her as "he" on occasion. Honey had a tough act.

   In the most important way, I was a poor parent, but I realized that if I was gentle with her, she would curb her aggressive instincts. That seemed to work well inside, but not outside. I felt in time she would approach each new challenge more passively and carefully (probably not entirely, but over time she was calming down).

   Honey would curl up, almost in a ball, like a cat, settling into a favorite corner just outside the master bathroom door, and wait for me there. She was very calm and sweet in her manner as she waited. It was like she "knew the drill," and was just going to be there, and that was that. It was one of her many mysteries.

   One of the cutest things Honey did was yawn. On waking in the morning, her first yawn of the day tapered off to a sweet little, baby like, "ahrp." At other times, especially when I was picking her up or adjusting her position on the bed or sofa, she would make little gumming and whispering noises, as if coaching me and letting me know the lifting and carrying was going okay so far. I guess I taught her to do that by quietly talking to her when I picked her up. I liked to make little noises from across the room, and she would perk her ears, rotate her head, and watch me intently, listening to every sound and word. Honey loved a stimulating conversation.

   For awhile after the accident, I had these moments around 11 p.m. when I started to get up to take Honey for a walk. We used to go for walks in the neighborhood, late at night--we are "masters of the universe" in the midnight hours. Now, when I get that urge to take Honey, and go for a walk in the middle of the night, the loneliness wells up. (I still can't believe this has happened. I think I have cried more for Honey than ever in my life. It will be a long time before I feel like walking that path again. I donít want to leave the house, and I cannot bear the sight of her favorite haunts without her.)

   In the winter months, we took lots of walks, more than one a day, sometimes three, and we would have again when the cooler weather returned. The path was about one mile, but we varied our course and walked all over the neighborhood, north, east and south. As the seasons change, and the days mount up, it seems like I will remember the little dog, and how sad it is that she died, because I was exhausted and could not take care of either of us very well. No matter what the explanation, it is a terrible outcome.

   With Honey, the weekends were the best, there was less work and less business to take care of. I did not have to get something done at a bank or auto repair place or wherever, and Honey was always there for me.

    Honey was wonderful with the smallest child. I was looking forward to growing old with her, and I will always remember that last scene, barely a minute before she died, of her lying down submissively on her side in front of a little boy who was passing by. He looked back, stopped and lovingly waved his finger at Honey and told her to "go home." I heard the discussion, and walked a few paces, to a point that allowed me to see what was going on. They were about 25 feet away. I spoke softly to the young boy (possibly 6 or 7 years old). I said, "She just wants to talk to you and love you." He said, "okay," and bent down to pet her. I walked over and picked her up, so the youngster could go on his way. I held her in my arms, as if sitting upright, as I always did, her face near mine, and she licked my left cheek. I carried her back to where I was working, hesitated and stopped in the middle of the driveway to set her down. I was thinking, "I should take her to the house, just a few feet away, but she will find her way back out," and that was my fatal error! I would never have done that! It was the time of day for the passing by of the few cars that make up the early evening traffic. Her paws barely touched the ground...

   I said stay with me "little dog." Then I started to turn and go back to work, but I saw a truck coming from the east, just as Honey saw a big red "setter," also approaching from the east. (Honey knew the "setter" and pretended to drive him off on occasion, but the "setter" always ignored Honey.) There is a blind spot... I saw the truck, but Honey did not, and was off like a bolt of lightening, after the "setter," It all happened in barely a second. I ran and yelled as loud as I could for the truck to stop, "STOP, STOP, STOP," and the driver could see the "setter" in the street, with her owner, but he was young and a moving along a bit over the speed limit, and did not slow down even for the "setter," clearly in view. I saw the crisis and thought, if I could, I would run and snatch her up, and risk getting hit myself. I felt I would do better than Honey, and better me than her, but it was out of my hands, and over in an instant. (There had been a "near miss" on the same spot, "the blind spot," and I exclaimed then that I would solve that problem "then and there," but I was so absentminded that I forgot my intentions before reaching the front door. I usually tucked her inside, closed the door and went back to work as if nothing had happened. I was not myself, and had, on occasion, been unable to remember details for more than a few seconds, since the head injury years ago. This memory problem is another thing that made me an unsafe owner.)

   A lot of the worked was getting done, and that afternoon, I felt at ease for the first time in months. I was so proud of "Honey" for how gentle she was with children. She was so sweet, and she was gone in a second. I sat in the street with her in my arms and cried out, "what am I gonna do, she was all I had."

  "I will always remember how much she adored kids, and that last moment with that little boy. Fortunately, he was gone around the corner, and hopefully will never know what happened. My greatest guilt is in letting Honey be robbed away from so many who loved her, and my dread is in having to tell them she is gone. (She was famous. The kids in the neighborhood called her the "Men in Black Dog." I just called her "little dog." I was planning on seeing ìher new movie," but I will pass for now.)

   While writing all this down, I began to wonder where Honey learned the submissive act of lying on her side and waging her tail, and as I recall, a black cat, a male named Orsen, who gave Honey her first kiss (Kelly's words), did that when ever Honey approached him, and Honey would stand there over Orsen, in a state of puzzlement, while Orsen purred. At the time, I thought Honey did not understand Orsenís actions, but she obviously got his message, and passed it on. Honey learned her lessons well.

   What went wrong on that last day: The worst risk was the pantry door being left open, so Honey could get to her "papers" in the garage. I was always concerned that she might pee in the living room. The flaw in my thinking was that I was still remembering the peeing on the carpet and wanted the pantry door open all the time. I could not get it into my head that the problem was long past, and that I was overcompensating to prevent an incident that was not going to take place. (That is the way it has been! I get upset about some mishap, and don't let go of it when the problem is past. It was a mental error on my part to worry about that door for so long after the fact. The peeing on the rug was such a traumatic thing (almost a year before) that it still upset me every time I found the door closed or had to close it for more than a minute. I was too exhausted to see what I was doing wrong, and it has been like that with panic attacks and memory loss for all these years. All I had to do was close the pantry door when the garage was open, and she would not have peed on the carpet, and she would be here now.

   For the last few weeks, and especially, the last two days before Honey died, I felt more hopeful about getting the job done. Ironically, we would not have been in the front yard, with the garage door open (Honeyís favorite escape route), if I had not been feeling better. (You would think I would have been more careful. I keep seeing that truck run over her, and it stabs at my stomach like a knife. It was a horrible moment. More than once in recent weeks I had said, "if anything happens to you little dog, it will be my fault.")

   I am looking at every mistake, and every detail, but this particular one reduced safety unacceptably. However, to contradict that, I rarely had the garage door open. But the garage is where she got out on that day. She usually got out somewhere else, or I just let her out the front door, but not at that time of day. And of course, if I had not been so overwhelmed out of sorts I might have realized the threat of peeing on the rug was past. So, I have questioned myself on all these things, and they all tie together in one way. I was exhausted and not thinking or focusing clearly, and no matter what I come up with to find peace, the loss of all the things Honey was and did keep coming back to me.

   So many times, I did not pay enough attention to her, working for hours in the yard or on the computer. In time, I would catch up, and spend more time with her, but it is not to be. I'll always remember that scene with the little boy, and how careful and gentle she was. This moment, more than any other, drives the need to explain what happened and speak up for her. It is so hard to be responsible for losing one so close. All of her wonderful ways would have become more priceless with the passing years.

    Honey was family, and any dog to follow, will tread in large paw prints. Honey became who she was partly because she got out in the world, but the world is a dangerous place for a little dog. Honey gave me hope.

   Whenever I filled her food dish, she would watch from the other room, until I was done. Then, she would rush in and look it over, and always look back at me appreciatively... or not. Sometimes, I did not give her some tidbit from the table that she new was there, and should not have. So, she gave me a disapproving glance, and walked away from the bowl. I could leave it there all day, and she would usually give in and eat some of it, but not always. I spoiled her, and she learned to get the best treats I had by turning down anything less.

   In recent months, I was putting together a memorial orchid collection, in my parentsí name, in the backyard, and sometimes I would go out late at night and look over the orchids for a few minutes, and then go back inside. On occasion, Honey slipped out behind me, and I forgot, or did not know she was there. When I was through, I walked back inside and closed the door. If she did not get inside in time, she was still safe in the backyard, and always waited by the door. She must have been perplexed with me--anyway, she should have been. I soon noticed she was not curled up on her pillow in the computer room, where I worked in the evening. I then recalled the trip outside. I usually remembered in a few minutes, but one time (I had been back inside for at least a half hour, and I heard a dog barking somewhere. It took a minute to realize it might be Honey, and I went to let her in.

   I felt bad that she must have felt abandoned for those many long minutes, but she was hysterically happy to get back inside. So, after that happened 5 or 6 times in the last few months, I was learning to look before closing the door behind me. Honey was learning too, and kept an eye on me, and would scoot across the patio, to make it in time. Honey could scramble!

   When I was collecting orchids, I made a few car trips, and on a few occasions, Honey was alone in the house for almost half the day. I donít think it was ever more than 4 or 5 hours, and then only once or twice, but looking back on it, any time that I can remember being away from Honey for more than an hour or two seems insensitive and irresponsible. I thought about her constantly, but how was she to know that, when I locked her in, and left her there. She loved kids so much, I often thought she would be better off with a big family.

   When I returned home, she was waiting just inside the front door, and happy to see me when I returned. Sometimes, it was obvious that she had not left the door since I said goodbye, and closed it, some time before--I was usually away less than an hour or a little more. I would think about how lonely and uncertain that time must have been. I talked to her and reassured her, but would often go through the house to the backyard or to the kitchen and deposit whatever I had acquired. Sometimes, she helped unpack groceries, and each time the refrigerator door opened, she stuck her nose inside. Other times, on returning, we would almost immediately go out for a walk ("on leash"). Too often, I started another project using some tool or material that I had purchased on that dayís trip.

   In the cool weather, we walked more, and the work was less fatiguing. (Honey had 42 toys, and she slept or played all day, but it wasn't enough.)

   It seemed like the work never ended, but I took more time off, from being in the backyard, with the orchids, and just skipped everything else, in those last days. Did I leave Honey alone too much? Whatever I did, right or wrong, I thought I would always have Honey. Sometimes, when coming in from outside, I went all the way across the house before remembering to slow down and greet her. She was usually on the sofa, wagging her tail. I regret ever moment of preoccupation, and there were many. (We had more fun in the cool weather, and thanks to Jeanne, Eleanor, Russki (a Russian Blue), Orsen (the black cat--a "boy friend" who gave Honey her first kiss), Jim and Nancy, and the kids, she had pretty good times. Honey loved cats!

    When getting groceries in the daylight hours, I did not take Honey with me, because I could not leave her in the car, with the Sun beating down. So, as time passed, and so that she could come along, grocery shopping became almost always, a night time thing. However, when I went shopping for groceries, in the late afternoon, or if for any reason, while the car was in the driveway, I would open one of the doors, and either be returning or not going anywhere, and Honey was inside the house in the air conditioning, I would open the front door to the house, and Honey would come out to help me unload groceries or to do whatever the task required. When I finished unloading, I went inside to make some entry on the computer or read the mail, or whatever. I left the front door of the house open for Honey to come in, and she usually followed me back inside, and never wondered off!

  In more recent times, I would finish the unloading or whatever I was doing and start looking around for Honey and occasionally she was not readily in sight. Then, I noticed the car door was still open, and there she was, curled up in the seat, apparently waiting to go on a trip. And when we did go "prospecting" together, to get groceries, or whatever was needed, and then return home, she would very often stay in the car, and I would have to coax her out. It seems like she felt at home in the car more than anywhere else. (A possible explanation: Honey owned 3 white doormat sized wooly blankets, and the seat covers in the Honda were of the same soft material (I think it was lamb). Maybe she thought the seat covers belonged to her as well, and they surely did. Either way, she was very tentative and submissive about it (almost like she thought she was in trouble), and it took considerable patient, but determined, negotiating to get her to leave the car! (This phenomenon was more likely to occur if there was just an hour or so of daylight left. If it was hot or getting dark, she promptly followed me inside. It also occurs to me that Honey might have felt at home in the car because it was somewhat like her kennel.)

   This behavior still puzzles me, and I wish I had taken time to figure it out. I wish I had just once gotten down on my knees and nuzzled her, and softly asked her, if she would like to go inside. Because it seemed like there was something very special going on, I was always patient, and very gently coaxed her from the car--I don't know what was going on, but it was a special moment. (When she was a pup, I occasionally got close and whispered to her, and she was so still, and her little tongue would barely come out, and there would be this little gumming or lip smacking noise as she soaked up the attention.) Honey responded to gentleness.

   It was odd to find her curled up in the car all alone, with the door open. If I visited somewhere with her, and it was shady, and she could not come in, I left her in the car, intending to leave soon. It seems like I could have left her in the car for hours, and she would patiently wait for me to finish my visit. I never left her there very long, and only then if it was the home of a friend, and in the cool of the evening. Sometimes, I would get Jeanne or Nancy out of the house, and we would quietly approach the car, to see what Honey was doing, and there she would be, sometimes curled up, but sometimes, sitting up, at attention, like the RCA dog. (There were many examples of her composure and poise, but when she got loose in the front yard, after being in the house for several hours, it was a scary situation.)

   Probably the funniest thing Honey did was, when she got excited, or I played with her, or teased her by trying to grab her foot, she would run in a circle, or around a table, as fast as she could go, and she could run like the wind. Sometimes, the circle was barely 2 foot across, and she was almost a blur, like a tornado. How did she do that? She was so much fun. (Honey was a comedian.)

    Until about the age of 2-1/2, Honey had an addiction to toilet paper. She would sneak in the bathroom, and take hold of the free end, and run it out all over the house. She did not do it often, but sometimes there would be more than a hundred foot of toilet paper wrapped around the living room. (Honey was a "paper hanger.")

   Sometimes, Honey would follow along after two young boys that lived across the street, as they carried their fishing poles to a canal nearby (in a cul du sac, three houses west). I don't think they ever caught anything, but Honey stayed there and watched them sitting on the little broken down dock for an hour or more. I followed and slipped up on them the first time this happened, to see where they went, and be sure Honey was safe. She was sitting there motionless, a few feet behind the boys, watching the baiting and casting. I slipped away without letting her know I was there, and when the boys went home, she walked up the drive and sat down in front of our house, waiting for whatever happened next. (Honey loved to fish.)

    I must work all this out, because I needed to know what went wrong and how, and because Honey and I had such a complicated relationship. Everyone in the family is gone now, and I am on my own. (Honey was carrying on for my parents.) No matter when I lost Honey it would really have been difficult and confusing. There were so many things going on between me and that little dog. Honey stayed behind with me.

   I had forgotten this story for several years, until now. Seven or eight years ago, before I moved to this house, before Honeyís time, and while my mom was still alive, there was a little black Chihuahua that used to visit me, most nights, over a several month period, I would open the door let him in, and feed him, and sometimes he would spend the night, or a few hours, as he chose. He was almost human, but did not weigh more than 3 or 4 pounds. He would step up and walk inside, like an invited guest. One night, when I was in the yard, sitting down and viewing the stars, with my telescope, he walked up in the dark, undetected, and sat down on my foot. He just sat there with me for an hour. He was a neat little dog, and I was greatly touched by his composure and poise.

   I was in poor health then too (more than now), but the pressures and responsibilities were not as difficult. It was like "walking in my sleep," but I was holding on, and there seemed no particular risk. (How sick I was, and how awful those days were! They called my condition CFS, and I was still dragging along when my dad died years later. My condition improved in the last years, but obviously not enough for Honey's sake.)

   I had forgotten that little dog for several years, but remember now that one night he came to my den window, and then the porch door, and I did not realize he was there for some time. After awhile it dawned on me that he was outside, fussing to get my attention, and I rose to go and let him in, but he had gone. It was a lonely moment... I never saw him again, and felt bad that he might have felt abandoned. His home was several houses to the west, and inÝspite of his tiny size, was let out every night. He behaved as though he belonged to me, or I him, for a part of each day. He was really quite dignified. After not seeing him for awhile, I asked several of the neighbors if anyone knew him or where he was, and they thought his owner had moved from the area. (His owner was hispanic, and the elegant little black dog was known as "Paucho.")

   If I get another dog, I will miss Honey's ways all the more. She was so unique, partly because she was a bit hyper and aggressive. She was a little bit "hopped up!" (As evidence to her nervous nature, I remember how frantic she was when I went to pick her up at the vet after an overnight stay--she was barely two years old. I instinctively realized she would not do well, left there by herself. (Who would do well, mysteriously removed from the only home she knew for the first time ever.) I had taken her in at noon, and at about 4 p.m., I began to worry about her being alone until the next morning. I figured she had been shut up, in a cage, by herself, long enough!

   I drove back to the animal hospital, and asked to see Honey. We went to the back, and she was calm, but still a bit groggy. However, the next morning, after being there all night, she went into an almost hysterical state, when she saw me. She was wheezing and snorting and squealing and darting back and forth at the door of her tiny prison. There was an incredible output of nervous energy. It was very upsetting, and I grabbed her up to comfort her. (So, we were a lot alike, in that we both let things get to us.)

   Maybe it was this sameness that kept her constantly on my mind. I was just too exhausted to realize how close we were at the time, and how much at risk she was. (She was, my dad's dog, but I doted over her, and one evening he looked at me and said, "you know she is really your dog." I think he was afraid I might not want to keep her after he moved on. It was poignant moment. I assured him I would always look after her. (He would be so unhappy at this outcome. This is a very difficult to look back on.) Honey needed understanding and lots of attention. I knew who she was, and what she needed. I could not give her enough of my time!

   So, I know why she ran with such abandon, I just don't know how, and I should know that too. You see I was like that as a child, and joined the track team in high school to "run away from it all." In that last moment Honey was like a bullet fired into the maelstrom, ending her life as suddenly as she lived it. (I fear that many of Honeyís impressions, the Sumo wrestler, with 13 wrinkles, Marty Feldman and the "RCA dog" will never be seen again.)

   Honey should have lived to see more, but she did get to meet more than her share of dogs and people. (When she died, it was instantaneous--she did not suffer. There is little solace in this, but friends say to count my blessings, and Honey was surely a blessing. We should have had more time together to talk and work things out. (Many times I said, and others said, that Honey saved our lives after my mom died. It would have been good to have saved hers.)

   When we walked in the afternoon, in the cooler months, there were several groups of children, ages 4 to 12, playing in the street, along the way, and she new everyone, and would greet and play for a moment with each member of the group, and then she was ready to move on. It was like she owed each a greeting, but knew we had to go about our business. She never missed nuzzling even one of her charges. Honey loved everybody, and had a special way of dealing with each person in her life. Honey shared every moment and stayed on schedule, with her usual routine.

   Once we were out for a walk, and we came upon 3 or 4 teenage boys talking and horsing around in the side of the road. They were preoccupied with conversation, and at an age (15 or 16) where you just as well wanted to leave them to whatever they were doing. Honey, nonetheless, approached the group, and I watched with some concern that she would not be well or attentively received... One of the boys, the leader, looked at her, and for some reason, pointed and started laughing at her, as if to make fun of her little pug face. I was ready to move on... For a moment, she cocked her head to one side, the way she did when there was a puzzle to solve. She pulled up...she had figured it out in an instant.Without further ado, she wheeled around, and off we went, on our quest for friends and items of interest left by chance along the roadway.

   For the first two weeks, following Honey's death, I was dealing with what happened as a loss, and not thinking of my own mortality. Now that it has occurred to me at a deeper level, Honey's death has made my own mortality crystal clear. This realization seems to help deal with what has happened. Getting things done doesnít seem to matter as much as it did. Honeyís passing made me see the imponderable truth.

  We visited a nursing home with Jeanne, and Honey attended to patients in beds and wheel chairs. She was usually careful, but often tried to get in an empty lap, or in a bed. She was all over the place. Honey was a healer.

   On one occasion, everyone at the nursing home was gathered in the day room for a dog show. When it was Honey's turn, I lead Honey to the center of the room, and introduced her to the group. She won a prize, and then went from patient to patient, some in wheel chairs, checking on the condition of each. A bedside manner: The room came to life as she made her "rounds," standing up on her hind legs, addressing each patient, in her best bedside manner.

   I regret every time that I raised my voice to her for peeing on the rug or charging at cars, in those first few months, that we were alone together. I felt bad for reprimanding her, and incompetent for not solving the problems more intelligently. On 5 or 6 occasions, when times were there worst, shortly after my dad died, I swatted Honey once on the rear to let her know what she did was not okay. I was careful not to even jar her, and I promptly reassured her, but I wanted to get her attention. Not a very effective solution, but in the last year, she mended most of her ways, except for "charging" at other dogs, and at cars. I quickly learned to pick her up and hug her (when retrieving her from harms way), no matter what! (Honey could not be stopped or called back once she saw another dog.)

   There was very little traffic on Honey's street, but, on one occasion, a cement truck and it's driver lost their way, and headed our way, looking for an address. There had never been such an immense creature to invade Honey's territory, and I was concerned as to how she might react to such a sight. Honey spied the "whirling behemoth" as it advanced toward her, at about 3 miles per hour. She knew instinctively what had to be done. She stationed herself in the middle of the oncoming lane, directly in front of the house, where she stood her ground. (In actuality, she sat on her haunches until the east perimeter was breached.) As the distance closed, she rose, barking and standing directly in the truck's path. The truck lumbered to a stop about 20 feet east of where Honey stood, and I hurried to remove her from her battle position. It was really hilarious to see this tiny terrier standing down a 20-ton truck. Honey was in charge of the local "neighborhood watch."

   It isn't getting easier, but I keep going over what happened. Maybe I still don't have it right. Honey had so much fun, but I should have kept her safe. She was the crown jewel, "The Supreme Commander" of my universe. The most painful time is when I am reminded of Honey's wonderful antics.

   I regret the missed opportunities, locking her out in the back yard, not playing with her every day, staying up late, and not responding more to her requests to play or go for a walk or go to bed early. I thought there would be time to pay more attention, but she never seemed to mind, and knew she was much loved. I would like to have shared that last Salmon fillet with her. Honey ate and slept very well.

  From the first day, my dad and I worried about Honey's bulging, and noticeably"walled," eyes. They got better as she matured, and while she did run into the furniture from time to time, it was mostly because she raced through the house at an incredible rate. Friends and fans of Honey's stood agasp as she circled the room at flank speed. She did not falter or hesitate, even though the path was strewn with her possessions.

   Honey knew where everything in the room was, including her 42 toys, and she could locate anyone of them at will. I always knew how I rated with her, because she kept the best toys in the den where I worked on the computer, late into the night. (Because she looked straight at you, with her right eye, and her left eye seemed to be looking somewhere else, I surmised that she was right handed. Honey was a "north-paw.")

  Knowing that I could probably not have done things much differently, or that so much was against us, or that she could not have had much more fun or many more friends, does not lessen the sadness. (If it had been up to me, I probably would not have ever had a dog, but there were others to think of, and in time, and in this late hour, the "little dog" taught me about unconditional love, and nothing will ever be the same.)

   I should have protected Honey better, because she was unreplaceable, and she was all that really mattered, but I was too weary to realize the danger. I was running on empty. Exhaustion had long since become a way of life. (It is like I was leaning on Honey to get by, and keep going, after my parents died, and now I have to deal with the passing of all three at once. Honey was my little soldier.

    My condition may have been sensed by the "little dog," and she may have been all the more likely to charge out in the street, at every opportunity, to protect me. We were a worst case scenario, but in her few years, Honey saw more, and did more than most other Chinese Pugs. Honey was courageous.

  There are parts of me that still don't know she is gone. We went through a lot together in 43 months. I keep bumping into her memory wherever I turn, and I cannot yet bare to look at her pictures, or to think of that innocent little face looking up at me. (In recent months, I said over and over, "I would not take $10,000 for that little dog." Like myself, Honey was an only child.)

    It would have been nice to someday look back and say, "we made it little dog. It is a wonder, but we made it." That would have been a great success, like a badge of honor, and just going on, after this, is really hard.

   Going for walks is disorienting in the summer heat. This last spring, I decided to stay inside for the summer, and failure to do so was another mistake. (My mom had the same heart condition and could not stand the heat.) Resting every two hours will help, but staying out of the heat is apparently not negotiable.

   I am still worried about Honey: Four weeks after the accident, I was returning home, and got out of the car, when a truck sped by the house (from that same direction), and I looked everywhere to make sure Honey was not in the street. (Five weeks after: When I go out the front door, I look to see if she is slipping out behind me. Six weeks: Sometimes, when I am working inside, a dog barks outside, and I think it is Honey, locked out again.)

  The disorientation and my dragging on an on to get this mess under control seems to have revolved around a computer generated list of two or three hundred items. I am learning to set the list aside, and I am finding some peace and an awareness that Honey might have survived if there had been no list. For these last 14 months, and with my health problems, and with virtually everything broken or in disarray, there was just no way to step back from the brink and see clearly. I keep saying if I had done this our that, or had solved this problem, Honey would have been safe, but even now, with more help and more repaired, or put in its place, it is still not safe for a little dog. (Honey was a major handful!)

  Without Honey all the plans, projects and accomplishments don't mean much. My father would say, "screw everything else,  don't let anything happen to that little dog." I was the most important person in the world to Honey, and without her I am less, and what I do now is just passing time. There will always be that feeling, but I will continue to do what I have begun. So, I go on, to see where this leads. There was little I could have done to prevent what happened, but I continue to examine every memory and every detail.

   A double edged sword: While it always upsets me to go over this account of Honey's life, it is all I have left of her, and putting it away, is not yet possible. What happened is so difficult, and the details are so complicated, I canít keep it straight in my mind without going back over it every few days. And, while I keep "going over it," telling this story is like an open wound--I don't know if I will be able to leave it, or the picture of this little dog, on the web site much longer.