Kubby, the writer's friend

There she sat, behind my chair, watching me type. Every now and then she'd tap a paw on her bowl to request a snack or knock against the wall to let me know she needed some play time. So we'd play. And I'd return to writing, newly refreshed and touched by her happy spirit.

Sweet Kubby, the 17-year-old Aussie shepherd, left us last Friday. She had a long life, full of adventures. She got and gave lots of love. She barked at squirrels and the UPS man.

If a dog can be a diva, she was one. She liked to be brushed and combed and seemed a little out of sorts when she wasn't looking her best.

This dog was a genius. Even in her later years, she never lost an IQ point. I once laid out half a dozen of her well-worn toys, which she could fetch by name. In the middle of the pile, I put a rolled up sock, something she'd never played with. I said, "Find the sock, Kubby." She looked at the objects for just a few seconds before picking up the sock in her teeth. She worked it out by elimination. Genius, I tell you.

The house is awfully quiet without her. The corner behind my desk now is filled with papers and books because I can't stand the empty space.

Last night I could swear I heard her bark, the way she did in recent months when she needed another pain pill or a midnight refill of her water bowl. Her spirit is here. It's sad to lose a friend. I wish you could have met her.