He was, on occasion, a very good dog

I was among of group of animal adopters at Carrollton's no-kill animal shelter, holding my right hand in the air like an idiot and ready to make a "promise."

Shelter Lady: Repeat after me. "I promise to keep my animal indoors when I am not present and to never take him outside without a leash."

Me: ... I have a fenced-in backyard?

The volunteer looked at me. Operation Kindness is known to be a demon with it's inside-only standards. A few years back Steve Blow of the Morning News wrote a scathing column after a man complained he was denied a puppy just because he planned to keep it outside.

On the other hand, I was adopting a dog named "Freckles," who had been brought in as one in a litter of puppies. He was now almost full grown, having spent the first nine months of his life in a shelter cage, after the rest of the litter had been snatched up early. He was not an attractive adolescent.

The volunteer ignored me and plowed on ...

Volunteer: "I promise to provide him regular veterinary care ..."

Me: ... and I'm going to let him run around on a farm?

I got the dog -- immediately renamed Jimbo -- because I'd been raised with two canines. I thought my other one, Ginger, could use the company, what with me being away at work all the time. Big mistake. The first time they met, they looked at each other, put their ears back, and started peeing on my floor at the same time.

I still have a couple of scars from the eight or nine times I had to keep them from killing each other. He turned into a tall, skinny dog, able to puff his hair up enough to scare the bejesus out of just about anybody. My family didn't like him. My wife worried about him.

He never stopped chewing. He'd go through an "indestructable" toy in a couple of weeks. Every house I kept him in has some little reminder -- a chewed-up floorboard, a hole in the shag carpet -- that he was there. He was a nervous dog. Any time I had him indoors, he would follow me from room to room, so quietly that I wouldn't know he was there untilI turned around and tripped over him.

He was an athlete, the only dog I've had who could reliably catch a Frisbee. He was so fast that no matter how far I threw a ball, he would catch it while it was still bouncing. Fetch was a life-and-death thing for him.

He didn't have much of a personality. He was awkward. He was either shy or guarded with strangers, and would start avidly licking their faces once he felt safe enough. He seemed happiest just to lie down beside (or on) me while I was watching a movie and drift off to sleep.

He was sick for the last two-and-a-half weeks. I kept thinking that I'd have him euthanized, but he kept acting like he wanted to stay around. He would always perk up and wag his tail when I checked on him. Two days ago, he spent his walk sniffing at bushes and garbage and marking territory, like he was getting back to his old ways. But he couldn't get past this illness, whatever it was. I found him in the garage last night. He had crawled into a corner and lied down, finally giving up.

Looking back, it was a mistake to get him, but it's a mistake I'm glad I made. I was going through some of his pictures today, after I dropped him off at the vet's. He seemed to be happy. He was well fed, comfortable. He had plenty of time to run around, and got to spend a lot of time exploring things on his own. He had 13 years. All in all, a decent life for a dog. I'll miss him.