My first puppy was a memorable and life-shaping experience. Although my parents never admitted it, I suspect they finally caved in to my pleas for a puppy, when the neighbors down the street called to let them know I was spending an inordinate amount of time sitting next to their beagle, on top of his dog house.

I thought he looked lonely and sad, too young to realize that beagles look this way most of the time. His name was Blaze, and I thought he was the most handsome dog I had ever seen. With my arm thrown over his shoulders and my skinny, six-year old legs dangling from his rooftop, the cares and worries of childhood drifted away.

In the autumn of my third grade year, I arrived home from school one afternoon to find a note from my parents on the kitchen table. The note said they had gone out of town to buy supplies for the business and would be home around Four O'clock.

Unsupervised time at home was a rare and wonderful thing, and I was considering my options when I heard the familiar sound of our car pulling into the drive way. My parents entered the house and asked me to help them carry groceries into the house.

Walking to the car, I tried to disguise my disappointment over their early return, when I noticed a tiny white tip moving back and forth in the front seat window of the car. I couldn't see what was attached to it, but I knew without a doubt that my first puppy was waiting on the other side of that window.

I opened the door and scooped up a tiny tri-colored, nosy little beagle, unaware that this day would mark the beginning of nearly fifteen wonderful years for all of us.

"Boots" was our constant companion, whether we were frolicking through October leaves, motor-boating down the Skunk River in the heat of July, or trekking through the springtime timber, in search of elusive morels.