When I was ten years old I got a puppy from the Gaither family that I named Prince. He was mostly Collie, but not a pure breed.  Prince possessed all the good shepherding qualities and good looks of a Collie, and all the hero qualities of a loyal mutt.  He was hands down the world’s best dog.  Ten-year-old boys need a dog to grow up with and for me, Prince was sent from God.  

Prince played with me every day and comforted me when I was in my parent’s dog house.  Actually, I would join Prince in HIS dog house when I didn’t want anyone to see me crying.  He would often lick my salty tears with compassion.

Prince and I had an understanding.  He would be allowed to go anywhere with me– to town, to the Dairy Queen, to the swimming pool, to my friend’s house– but not to school– even though the school was only one block away.  But he did know what it meant when the three o’clock bell rang. He would wait for me in the front yard, eagerly searching for my appearance on the road or from the shortcut through the woods.

Prince hated certain things:  opossums, fire, cats, and getting the knots brushed out of his tail.  He tolerated baths, and usually looked for a muddy place to dry off afterward!  Prince was a consummate friend and guardian– not just for me but for the entire Sims family– and even for our neighbors.  The Wilsons, the Kennedys, and Granny Gray all loved Prince.

I could say, “Prince, we’re going to Grandma Nichols’ house,” and he would run through woods and meet us there.  Once my little sister was riding her bike to Grandma Nichols’ and I followed quite a distance behind.  As was customary, Prince went ahead of us, scanning the road from side to side and ensuring that there were no criminals, mean dogs, or possums ahead.  On this day, Prince’s attention was drawn to a lovely dead raccoon carcass on the side of the road, and he missed the several dogs who were closing in on Donna as she pedaled toward Grandma’s driveway.  Fearful, Donna slid down in the gravel on the side of the road.

When Prince saw the array of three mutts moving toward Donna, he ran like lightning and threw his body against all of them, snarling, growling and scattering those dogs all over the street.  I witnessed it, and our family’s admiration for Prince increased dramatically.

About the time I graduated from high school, Prince had developed heart-worms in his old age and was slowing down.  No longer did he want to play fetch, or chase the squirrels.  He just wanted love from us, and we gave it freely.

I was in my first year of college when the vet informed us that Prince was dying.  I came home from college to see him but got the word that he had actually died at Dr. Jordan’s office.  I borrowed my uncle’s El Camino to fetch his body from the vet, and was overwhelmed with grief when I picked him up.  I placed him in the bed of the El Camino, turned my lights on, and drove slowly from Mellow Valley to Ashland.  I couldn’t believe that the people on the highway didn’t pull over and wait until I passed!

With Prince in the El Camino bed, I made two trips around the town square in honor of his heroism and then headed back to our house on Third Avenue South.  When I got there, my sister was crying, so I decided to have a memorial service on the patio.  I put Prince’s body on the picnic table, allowing him to lie in state while I dug the grave in the backyard.  My little sister gathered wild flowers and mourned him on the patio.  She loved him as much as I did.

I dug the grave but had a hard time making it wide enough for Prince’ body.  The ground was as hard as a rock.  My grave looked more like a wedge than a square.  So when I slid Prince into the grave, rigormortis prevented him from laying flat– so I just buried him standing up.

Nevertheless, we buried Prince with honors that day.  Somehow it seems like burying him standing-up was the right thing to do.  Semper Fi.