OLD YELLER, Rin Tin Tin and Lassie are old friends of legend. Their stories are ageless, timeless. In our own, less poetic daily lives, those of us who treasure the presence of dogs are usually moving through some stage or other of the range of human emotions, possible only when there is great love.

There are many reasons for this bonded relationship. Your dogs seldom do anything bad to you. Even if they break a rule, there is always remorse written all over their face. They act mortified that they offended you in some way. They don't talk back.

You feel safer because they are there to sound the alarm at the first stranger's footstep on the porch. Their ferocity turns to rapture when it's you at the door. Dogs make you laugh, and they never mind being the brunt of a good joke. They forgive you for making them do stupid tricks to amuse you and your friends. When you're lonely, they're there for you, with a wet kiss and limpid brown eyes. They're always there for you.

Dogs have many endearing qualities. They dress up, for one thing. Dogs roll in whatever stinks best. One time, one of ours pranced in all perfumed up, with a perfectly intact deer-drop earring dangling elegantly from one furry ear.

Dogs are environmentally conscious, and help cure the water shortage. You make a sandwich. Dogs make water. Long, silvery strings of drool make miniponds on the kitchen floor. The stare. The cocked head. "You gonna eat that? You gonna eat that? You gonna eat that?" You should be so lucky to have that kind of focus at your job, on the golf ball, driving your car. What dogs eat, however, it a testimony to a stomach designed by the queen canine goddess. This food sack will digest anything - harkening back to the days when dogs fended for themselves, perhaps. But occasionally, there's a primordial moan and the steaming contents show up on your living room rug. No matter. The pond rejuvenation begins anew at the next meal.

On a brittle, cold winter day, there's a cozy nap on the couch by the wood stove. Just you and your pooch, warm and soft and sweet-smelling, your book open on your chest, rising and falling as you softly snore.

The unconditional love thing is a big asset: you're a jerk, they don't care. You spill stuff on your best shirt, you're still the world's most coordinated person. You screwed up all day, they greet you at the door with shining eyes. You want to play? So do they. Nap? No problem. Walk in the rain? How soon can we leave? They hike the Long Trail, and even carry their own pack, if that suits you.

Dogs are always with you, connecting the dots in your life for sometimes a decade, more if you're lucky. They travel with you, grow up with the kids, ski, bike and run with you. They comfort you when you lose someone you love. They help you cross many bridges, and you never forget. You might even wonder whether you could have crossed those bridges, if it weren't for them by your side. They 'get it'. They always 'get it'.

In the end, grieving is painful, wrenching, like something is squeezing your heart. Your breath catches several times a day, when you look, you listen, and no one's there. They trust you, when all around you, trust is elusive. Their trust in you is unshakeable. You bear that responsibility all the way to their final moment when it is all over, and you have to say goodbye. And you say thank you, thank you, with deepest gratitude. You say thank to the dog that shared the goodness, the sadness, the laughter and play, the joys and the sorrows of your daily life, for all those years you were together. And then you weep.