Grief is a funny thing. I mean in a dramatic irony kind of way, not necessarily ha-ha funny. But that's how I cope, typically.

Anyways, I want to tell you about my best friend. He had brown eyes, blond hair - everywhere - and gave the best kisses. He was dumber than a brick if you threw the ball when he wasn't looking, and he'd jump into any body of water, but he knew when you needed a hug or cuddle.

Before I frighten you any further, yes, he was a dog. My first, in fact.

When my parents got married, I remember my five year old self at our new house and the only thought in my head was, "Jesus, I need a dog." I prayed for about two years, probably daily.

One day I came home from school to my mother holding out the phone. "Dad's on the phone, and he has a surprise for you!" His thirteen year old dog, Holly, had given birth to six puppies. Holly lived with my grandparents out in the country, and the next day we went out to see them. Typically aggressive towards children, she only gave me a baleful glare as I knelt next to her box, listening to their gentle squeaks. My dad assured me we were going to keep one of them, "I'm thinking one of the females," he was so sure.

Two days later, my dad went out to find one of the two female puppies had suffocated under the bedding. The beautiful liver female was still alive though, and I was ecstatic. A week later, however, she was gone. My dad searched high and low through the garage and the outside. To this day, we can only speculate she died and Holly took her out, or a coyote came into the garage and ate her.

I came home from school to find Holly and the four male puppies sitting where our shoe rack used to be in the garage. My parents had deemed it not safe enough for them to stay without human supervision, and so commenced the best, stinkiest, and most chaotic school spring ever. Word to the wise - you shouldn't let a first grader name puppies, but do it anyways. Two black; Fatty and Rolly (soon renamed Russell and Odie) along with Tanner and Mickey. I wanted Tanner, the runt. Somehow we chose Mickey instead.

Except for Odie, the other two dogs died within three years.

Mickey was different.

He wasn't the brightest dog. I wasn't the most patient child. But somehow, through God's blessings, we made it work. I taught him how to beg, I showed him how to open the screen door. He taught me how to fetch a ball on land, I showed him how to get a stick while swimming (his favorite). We would go fishing in a dingy offshore, and he would swim out to us because he didn't like being left alone. Our yard wasn't completely fenced in, but he never ran away because he knew we were home.

This dog also had nine lives. When he was two years old, we went out to my uncle's farm. Mickey spent his whole day rolling in cow manure, when - to his delight - he spotted the pond and jumped right in, dragging the electric fence to protect the fish right in with him. He hopped right out, disentangled himself, and promptly found himself shivering in the drivers seat of my dad's brand new pick up...cow decorations included free or charge.

My freshman year of high school, I went to Argentina and my parents went to Florida. Mickey decided, for the first time ever, to go look for us since we weren't home. It didn't occur to this dog to wait until after the one of five blizzards occuring in Portland this century was over. He walked six miles, collapsing in a cul de sac, bloody paws from the road salt, and nearly froze to death until two kids found him on their front lawn and brought him inside. He was saved by an inch, and when my parents went to pick him up (three days before Christmas) Mickey joyfully ran and greeted them - and promptly went back to play with the boys until it was time to go.

But Mickey kept going. He would always let us know we had guests with a bark, but otherwise he was a silent dog. He greeted everyone who came in through our door with endless tail wags, sniffs, and licks. His favorite spot was under our dining room table, which was also our kitchen table due to our small house, and he always lay just under our feet at meal times, homework time, or argument time.

He was our mediator. During arguments and disagreements, if our voices got over a certain volume, he'd slowly walk in between the two parties at war and lean against legs, lick hands, or expectantly look at the other person as if to say, "Look, I love them! I love you too! Love each other, right?"

Mickey had a penchant for being terrified of loud noises as well. Born a bird dog, he was the absolute worst. At his first shotgun blast, he was digging a hole under sagebrush to get away from it. But the worst he did was run away if he was alone, otherwise he'd bunk with someone and be fine.

My junior year of high school there was a thunderstorm. My dad was downstairs, Mickey was in the garage, and all by himself, he booked it at the first thunderclap. My neighbor almost broke down the door moments later to tell my dad Mickey had been hit by a car on the main road and was dying. Leaping into his truck my dad raced there. Two old ladies had witnessed the truck running him over, and had laid a raincoat over him, holding an umbrella. He wasn't a pretty sight, and as my dad walked up, he tersely commanded, "Get on in there!" (the rather redneck way to get Mickey to hop up in the back of the truck). To the astonishment of all, he hopped right up into the truck bed, shivering and wet.

Mickey grew with me, but aging 7 times faster than a human takes a toll on a creature. I grew up and young, and he grew up and old. The last few years of his life we moved to a new house, got a litter of kittens and a few puppies (some dying and giving most to new homes), and he kept getting older. Getting hit by a truck had done it's damage, and soon he was walking more stiffly, stumbling over little things, but never refusing to make an effort to be there for us - his humans.

His last two months he couldn't get up on his own. He also had thyroid problems and his skin flaked off him constantly (his skin grew underneath it all, and his hair didn't fall out, so imagine hardcore smelly dandruff). I spent most of my time checking on if he needed up to go potty, up to get to his food, up to move away from his food, playing with or grooming him. We started talking putting him down when I repeatedly found him in his own mess.

Believe me, my point isn't to depress you. During this time, he still gave me kisses, asked for belly rubs, sneezed multiple times if I lightly placed my fingers on his nose, and when I touched my toes he'd do his best to stretch too. There were two steps up into the house from the garage where he spent most of his time, and I spent two months picking him up and carrying him in, and eventually out, of the house.

During those months I had a powerful realization. Any time I bent down and hauled my 60 pound dog up or down the stairs, I was returning the blessing he'd given me every day of his life. He brought up my spirits, gave me laughter, sneeze attacks from his fur, and comfort when I needed it. He gave constantly and selflessly, unless you take into account his insatiable desire for food. But he never got tired. He never refused to meet us with joy - and it was a powerful reminder.

Granted, he was a dog. He didn't worry about bills or papers or classes or graduating or friendships or stress or marriage or death or love or God. But he lived simply, and he knew what he could do best, and he did it.

When the daily grind gets me down, when I don't want to smile or do cool things or really move on, I remember how God blessed me with the best encourager ever (I will fight you on this one, sorry), and I pick my head up, smile, and seek ways to pay it forward for all the years my faithful friend, my little brother, and most importantly my gift, showed me how.

Cheers.