The column that touched readers most

The letters, like falling leaves, still continue, to my wonder and delight. The years scroll past and from time to time one letter will arrive … and then two … and then three … and then … all with the same request …

Your dog.

Of all the thousands of columns I have written for The Inquirer since 1972, the one that has touched readers the deepest isn't about an athlete, not about a team, not about an event, not about the Masters, not about Secretariat, not about Lance Armstrong, not about Joe Paterno, not about anyone we have put on a pedestal or anyone we have taken down …

Her name was Missy and like dogs everywhere she was one of God's noble creatures, just about the finest, truest companion imaginable.

She was of mixed, indiscriminate heritage. She kept us in line, the whole family; she took her duties seriously.

She was the Good Shepherd. Until came the day you try never to think about, the day that is inevitable, the day the lady passed.

The grief is scalding. A valued member of the family is gone. Just a dog, say those who have never been in their company. Just a dog? I think not.

And here is where the letter writers — and the emailers — come in. To share the grief. To offer condolences and compassion. They are moved to send prayer cards and long, heartfelt outpourings of sympathy.

Just a dog?

I think not.

When the tears had dried, I wrote the column, and for a long time it occupied the most hallowed of places — the refrigerator door. And from time to time a letter and a flutter of emails comes, with apologies and a request: Lost it. Came across it the other day. Any way you can resurrect it??

As a matter fact there is.

And here it is:

She could grin. Really, she could.

People didn't believe it, until they saw her do it.

You would grin at her and she would grin back, a big, sweeping, arcing, delirious up-swoosh of a grin, and the more you grinned at her the more she grinned back, until there you were, a whole circle of grinning fools.

And you know what? When you're grinning, you can't do certain things. Like scream and shout. Or curse and damn. Or start an argument. Or say mean, spiteful, unkind things that you wish you could take back the moment they escape from your mouth.

When your face is split by a grin, then your whole body is locked in joy. Which is, when you think about it, not a bad way to go through life.

Which is what she understood. Which is what all dogs seem to understand.

We lost her last week.

Cancer.

A more congenial companion you cannot imagine … well, unless you have a dog of your own. Then, you know.

Dogs touch the deepest part of us. There is a connection of souls. We find in them a kindred spirit, an understanding that needs no words.

For almost 11 years she was there to protect us and mother us and shepherd us. She was there without complaint or demand, without malice or deceit, patient and enduring beyond all reason, grateful just to be acknowledged, offering unconditional and totally selfless love.

She was small but mighty. And feisty. She thought she was bigger than she was. The blood of her ancestor, the wolf, may have been diluted by the years, but it still coursed through her.

On two legs, she would have been a point guard. Or a second baseman. Or a cornerback. Coaches would have loved her attitude. And her grit and her pluck.

She was a sprinter of impressive acceleration, and she had a vertical leap to astonish you — from a sitting position, she could leap almost twice her own height up onto the bed. She was always surprised that you were surprised by this, and when you made such a big deal out of it you could swear she actually blushed.

We would lie on that bed and watch the late-night games together, eating ice cream straight from the tub — a spoon for you, a spoon for me. Neither one of us ever had the sense to know when to stop.

And if this strikes you as excessive doting, you are referred to an old saying: If you think a dog should be treated like a dog, then you probably shouldn't have a dog.

She was the better judge of competitive worth in a sporting contest. She could sense a blowout coming and was usually asleep before you, and when you reached for the remote in disgust, she would look at you as if to say: Finally wised up, huh? I could have told you that game was going to be a turkey.

She was 3 months old when we got her. She was a fast study. In almost no time at all she had us trained.

What other creatures can understand exactly what you're saying even though they themselves are forever without the power of speech? What other creatures can communicate to you precisely what they want simply by the canine pantomime of certain, specific ears-up, tail-signaling looks that you come to recognize?

It is why you can imagine dogs comparing owners, one saying to the other: "He's a little slow, but I've worked with him and I think, all in all, you know, considering his obvious limitations, that he's come along nicely."

Our lady had a piercing bark, and she was a zealous defender of her turf, and she was more than tolerant when it came to the illogic of what we expected from her: Be a good, alert watchdog, and when she would dutifully obey that directive and raise a fine ruckus at the first footfall of a stranger, then we would shush at her to shut up.

Don't you sometimes imagine that they must think to themselves: Well, make up your mind, which is it you want?

We suffered a power outage last summer. No electricity for three days and nights. As twilight approached, she would look at me expectantly, and then as darkness was enveloping us, she would look at her sister and you could swear they were telling each other: "Do you suppose it will ever dawn on this doofus to just turn on the light switch? If only we had thumbs."

Dogs have the rare gift of understanding that just sitting on grass and watching the world go by is not at all boring. Rather, it is peace. It is tranquility. It is a state to be earnestly desired.

We had come to think of our lady as indestructible. Through a terrible, unforgivable lapse on her human's part, she had had both her front paws run over by a car. To the absolute amazement of the veterinarian, the X-rays showed not a single fractured bone.

He made the sign of the cross to bless her and said: "Missy, you redefine what 'lucky dog' means."

In no time, she was back accelerating from zero to 60.

Another time, one of her fang-teeth was ripped almost out. It hung at a 90-degree angle. The vet repositioned it, made a mighty shove, and jammed it back in place. The medical manuals, he said, claim that it is sometimes possible for the tooth to reattach.

Sure enough, it worked. Lucky dog, indeed.

And then came the day when she began to slow. Soon, she was content to merely watch the squirrels she used to chase. She seemed to age overnight.

Her legs betrayed her. She suffered the indignity of incontinence. She quit eating.

The tumors were everywhere inside her. Chemotherapy might give her a few weeks, they said, but she would be constantly sick and suffering.

So we did what you do in such agonizing circumstances. We cried until we had no more tears, and then we cried some more, and then we presumed to bestow upon her the release of euthanasia, praying that it is right to extinguish the light under such conditions, and asking her forgiveness for our arrogance.

The lasting memory will be of that glorious white plume of a tail that would shoot up like a periscope and set to wagging madly the instant she heard your voice. Was anyone ever as happy to see you, and never mind that you had only been gone for 15 minutes?

Her legacy will be The Grin … and the remembrance that when your face is occupied by a grin, it has no room for scowl or frown or snarl.

And you have no room for an unkind thought, or the heart to give voice to it.

So Missy lives on.

Bill Lyon is a retired Inquirer sports columnist. lyon1964@comcast.net