You were 4yo when you and your son entered my life. Untrained, unvetted, tick-ridden and wild, unused to living indoors, meant to be a temporary foster until I could overcome those rough edges. You destroyed my things, you dug up the yard, you terrified my timid collie who was rightfully here first and sent him to sulk in the hallway as you took ownership over the living room. Eventually the attraction which draws a boy to a girl overcame enough of his intimidation and you became the glue for a pack I never intended to have.

You trashed your crates and bypassed every attempt at a husky-proof dogrun to go on adventures miles away, somehow escaping injury along the way if not the dogcatcher. Eventually you accepted this as your new home, though you still jumped over the fence to play "Can't catch me" at any opportunity, once getting lost only four doors away where I found you indignant that someone dared put their house where yours belonged and giving quite an earful at this outrage with emphatic stompy paws.

You liked playing rough..or rather, being played rough with. Only your son understood and was able to play your way, chasing after you once you'd annoyed him enough, the two of you snarling into each other's faces and hipchecking as you ran side-by-side until he'd finally scruffed and pinned you to the ground with much angry-sounding fanfare; as soon as he released you, you'd goad him into doing it again, and it repeated over and over. You tried to teach me how to play your way, but I'm just a lumbering bipedal oaf and you'd finally have to resort to throwing yourself to the ground and looking up at me with a look of "Oh no you caught me, whatever shall I do now?" until I did my best to growl convincingly and shake you around by the scruff for a bit.

Brazen, unfettered by doubt; you knew you were loved by all, people only ever came by to play with and adore you, and the world was yours to explore. Danger didn't exist, only adventure. You weren't just the life of the party, you were the party wherever you went. And like all my dogs, you loved everyone. (Except for the baby cottontails you occasionally caught who, despite my best efforts, were fun and delicious toys.) The vet clinic was one of your favorite places, full of so many friends, and they loved you too for your unshakably outgoing nature and your conversational skill. You always had something to say even when you had nothing to say, and always replied when spoken to, even if sometimes all you pulled from your extensive vocabulary was a guttural, Keanu-like "Whoa!"

For all your energetic gusto you could be affectionate too, on your own terms. You loved your boys, even if you mostly showed it by tormenting them. When I first brought you home, you watched carefully to be sure your son got fed too before you were content to dig into your own bowl; of course, once convinced I was properly feeding you both, you'd happily steal from him just because you could. The rare instances you had time and patience for a cuddle it came with bonus kisses. Oh, and you had to give one kiss to every new friend. Just one demure kiss on the lips with just the slightest tip of tongue, but you had to be creative about it, from interrupting my conversation with the vet clinic's owner to stand on your hindlegs for a quick peck, to leaping in the midst of an outdoor full-speed zoomie to give a fly-by smooch to a visitor. And your first male vet—you were beside yourself as you whimpered impatiently for him to finish your son's exam 'til he finally turned to you, still squatting, to give you an "OK, fine" and you immediately leapt up to wrap your arms around his neck and treated him to a classic silver screen-era style smooch and I laughed my ass off at the poor fellow's fate.

You had an amazing fifteen years of perfect health, living and playing like you never aged over four, then over a year more successfully giving diabetes the finger for daring to intrude on your fun before complications finally got the better of you. And I know you still had plenty of spirit to keep fighting if only your body'd been able to keep up. I'd say rest well, but if there's an anywhere after here I know you're raising hell, taking no shit, and following nobody's rules but your own, same as ever. Keep kicking ass my little punk rock girl, wherever your indomitable spirit is. May the snow be plentiful, the food deliciously befitting your royal stature, your admirers unlimited, and the games everlasting you beautiful brat.