Pals

Like most kids, my sister and I always wanted a dog. Not a hamster, not a fish, not a turtle—an honest-to-goodness dog. My mom tried other things to fill that gap, but none of them really stuck. The yearning lingered.

After we moved into our new house on Limerick Drive, fate tossed us a bone. A scruffy stray started showing up around our yard. We named him Trouble—probably because he looked like the kind of mutt who had been in and out of a few. He was wiry, a little rough around the edges, but to us, he was perfect. He was our dog. For a couple of magical weeks, we played, fed him scraps, and gave him all the love two kids could muster.

And then his real owner showed up.

I don’t remember how he found us—maybe a phone call, maybe he just saw the dog—but he pulled up in an old pickup truck. He was an older man, and the moment he and Trouble locked eyes, we all knew. Trouble wasn’t ours after all. He was his. It was a bittersweet goodbye. As the truck pulled away, it felt like something had been taken from us. That dog had filled a void we hadn’t even realized was so deep.

The void didn’t stay empty for long.

After relentless lobbying from my sister and me, my mom finally caved—not completely, but just enough to say, “Let’s go to the Humane Society. Just to look.”

“Just to look” lasted about five minutes.

It was like walking into Christmas morning. Kennels lined the walls, filled with wagging tails, hopeful eyes, and ears that perked up every time someone walked by. But our attention didn’t wander long. We found him—a tiny brown puppy who looked like he might have a lot of Collie in him. He was scared. Quiet. But there was something about him that drew us in. As soon as we knelt down, he warmed to us. That was it. He was going home with us.

We decided to name him Tiny Tim.

That night, my dad got home late. He worked in the car business, and back then, drinks after work were more common than not. When he finally walked through the door around nine, he was definitely what you’d call “three sheets to the wind.”

Now keep in mind: Trouble had been a full-grown dog, about sixty pounds. Tiny Tim was seven pounds, tops. My dad stared at the little puppy, then at us, trying to connect the dots in his foggy mind.

He crouched down, patted the dog’s head, and said with a little smile, “Hi, Pal.”

And just like that, Tiny Tim became Pal. Or Pals, depending on the day.

Pal was everything a kid could want in a dog—loyal, loving, rambunctious and fun. He was more than a pet. He was a part of our childhoods, our family, our everyday lives. For over ten years, he was there for all the highs and lows. When the time came to say goodbye, all four of us shed tears. Because you don’t just lose a dog—you lose a friend, a sibling, a piece of your story.

And to think… it all started with a dog named Trouble.