I am a mischievous Multipoo with floppy ears and a fluffy tail. As a puppy, I found myself stuffed in my human dad’s shirt pocket for my first visit with neighbors, Dan and Lucy. It was love at first sight. As I grew, if I heard their voices, I ran along the sidewalk as fast as I could to see them, tugging against my leash and wiggling with excitement. I relished visits, especially sleepovers, at their house. They gave me toys and played games with me.

My parents often traveled but did not take me. I wondered why. They found me hiding in their suitcase before it snapped shut. My suitcase and I traveled down the street to stay with Dan and Lucy who began each day with love pats and a walk. Lucy brushed my soft, curly white hair until I thought I must be bald. I anticipated playtime, not breakfast, but their food smelled delicious. I nuzzled against Lucy’s legs, hoping for a handout. She was stingy with human food like my parents at my house. I choked down my breakfast, leaving crumbs for a snack.

Dan sat me on his lap, patted me, and said “Pretty itsy, bitsy, Mitzi” as he gazed into my dark-brown eyes, and I gazed into his sparkling blue eyes. If I squirmed, he knew I wanted to jump down and play. I hauled every toy from my collection for a chewing, squeaking, pouncing fun time to amuse him. Dan often said, “Mitzi, I wish I had your energy.”

Sometimes we took naps in the afternoon. If I awoke first, I wandered around the house. One day, I hid in the shower, camouflaged against white tile. I heard panicked voices calling my name as they searched in vain for me.

On laundry days, when Lucy removed clothes from the dryer, I grabbed a sock. She chased me around their house, but I did not let go of the sock and would not give it back.

At lunchtime, I turned my nose up at my leftover breakfast crumbs and dragged a squeaky toy under the table to entertain my hosts. After lunch, Dan would say, “Mitzi, let’s walk outside to watch the grass grow.” The rest of my days were filled with cuddles, walks, food, and playtime.

My favorite toy was a long-legged pink giraffe that I shook and yanked while playing tug-of-war. For my finale, I streaked around their house, cutting figure eights, pretending to stop, and then racing around again. Their applause and cheers of “Run, Mitzi. Run!” kept me zooming until I collapsed in a pile of curls beside my toys to end my performance.

During sleepovers, I slept in the bedroom in my little house at the foot of their bed. Each morning when Lucy awoke me, I rushed to the side of their bed, stood on my hind legs, and pawed the covers to awaken sleepy Dan. He laughed and patted my head. On one visit, Dan looked like a mummy with his face wrapped in bandages. Sometime later, when I snuggled close to him, I sniffed skin cancer. His mummy costume reappeared.

Time trickled away and I found an older Dan sitting in his chair or resting in his bed. I sat beside him to comfort and protect him. For some reason, several weeks elapsed between my visits. As usual, I ran to his chair, but he was not there. I dashed into the bedroom and stood on my hind legs to get my customary pat on my head, but he was not in bed. Like hide and seek, I jumped down and poked my head under the dust ruffle, but Dan was not under the bed. I searched the house and yard.

An amused Lucy observed my confusion, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Puzzled, I wondered, “Where is my best friend?”