As they say, ‘All dogs go to heaven’

Saturday night, my dog died.

He was 14 years old. That's 98 in dog years. He had arthritis and kidney problems, and he all but stopped eating. It got to the point where my Mom and Dad would have to carry him everywhere and so we knew it was coming, but knowing doesn't make it easier and I miss him.

I was 8 years old when we got him. He was a surprise. My sister Katy and I were at a friend's house and my Mom, Dad and brother Kyle had gone to get him. My parents let Kyle pick which dog out of the litter he wanted, and so he picked the biggest. And we named him Logan.

He was part Lab, part Golden Retriever, although the vet swore there was some Rottweiler in him. And he was beautiful – all black with gold-tipped paws and a gold-tipped nose – beautiful, even when the gold faded into gray.

He was big. Oh, I'm sure he was initially normal puppy-size to my Mom and Dad but to my sister, brother and me, as children, he was huge. It took me many years and lots of growing and persuading to be allowed to walk him by myself. He still managed to drag me. He'd take off running and I would hang onto that leash as tight as I could, my entire body dragging across the backyard. Later, as my Mom would be applying Neosporin and Band-Aids, she would ask why I didn't just let go. I didn't let go then for the same reason I don't want to let go now – love.

Perhaps you have to have grown up with a dog or currently own one to really know what I'm talking about when I say that dogs aren't just pets, rather, they are members of families. And Logan was a member of mine.

Our photo albums are dotted with pictures of him. There's a picture of him as a puppy, his black coat turned brown as he put muddy paw prints all over our glass patio doors. There's the picture of him sleeping on the basement landing with one of our cats curled up, also sleeping, on top of his back. There's the picture of his broken leg after surgery, metal brackets screwed onto the bone, after he managed to get loose, run away and get kicked by a cow. He loved to get loose and antagonize other animals – crazy dog.

During Christmas he got Christmas presents and after cookouts he got pieces of leftover hamburger and hotdog and steak. He loved steak.

Whenever you would pet him he would sit and put his paw on your forearm – every time. And so I'd sit and pet and say things to him like, "Hey Logandy Bogandy" or "Aren't you a good dog..." or sometimes, I would just tell him about my day.

He loved baths – especially on hot summer days. Katy and I would drench his coat with cold water from the hose and then, much to my brother's disgust, apply Herbal Essences shampoo all over him, rinse and then Logan would shake and shake and shake, soaking my brother, sister and me as we would laugh and laugh.

We took the longest of walks, Logan and I. We would walk past our property, through fields and tree lines, and I would talk and talk and talk – I told him everything. He always listened, never judged.

Indoors he would sleep on our basement landing, on his favorite blue rug.

Last Saturday my sister was up at school, my brother away for the weekend and my Mom visiting me when my Dad found him, curled up in his doghouse. My Dad cried and then picked him up and carried him to the tree line at the back of our property and buried him, wrapped in his blue rug, underneath a wooden swing my brother and I put up ages ago. Logan loved playing with us on that swing.

Each May thousands of wild daises spring up along the side of our yard. My Dad picked five of them, one for each of us, and placed them on Logan's grave.

I don't want to go home and visit a grave – I want to go home and visit my dog. But I wouldn't trade in the 14 years I had with him for anything – anything.

Another doghouse is empty, but five people's lives have been made a little more full.

Gebhart is a senior, magazine journalism major. She can be reached at kg403597.