Every dog I’ve had, I felt, was my favorite at the time, and there would never be another one like him. There was Smokey, Pal, Fuzzy, Fungo Squash, Bear, Sir Chewsalot, Dandy, Maxwell, and Dumper. But there was this guy. His name was Logan, well, that’s the name I gave him, after the famed Indian Chief of one of the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy.
I picked him up at a pound, one of those dog death camps. He was quite pathetic looking, but there was something about him that I liked. It was clear Logan, as they said, had been abused. For a while, any time my arm moved, he’d cringe. That didn’t last long.
Although he was by no means a puppy, when I got him, he weighed 35 pounds. Just by eating every day, he got up to 85 pounds. When I first got him, I’d take him on walks in the woods, and he’d wobble around. Once, he slipped off a log. As time passed, he bounded all over the place on the hikes we took together.
He never learned any dog tricks. I did teach him to come home at night by flashing the outside light on and off. He loved cold weather. In the winter, he’d sit on the hill on a windy day, overlooking the road covered in snow. On cold nights, I’d bring him in even though I had a fort made of straw in the garage for him.
Logan lived to old age, given his size. You can’t tell from this picture, but he was a Briad, the same breed of dog as Tramp on My Three Sons.
Logan’s death was particularly painful for me. For his size, one vet said he lived longer than usual. I remember the night before his final day; I knew I’d be taking him to the edge of the Rainbow Bridge. I knew he was going to die. I figure he knew it also.
One of the best I ever had-We were buds!