It was Christmas Eve of 1959, and my parents surprised me with an eight-week-old yellow lab puppy. She was beautiful, and of course, I named her Goldie. She had one of the sweetest dispositions, and we all adored her. Goldie was about five months old when we made the long trip from Vallejo, California to our new home in Boise, Idaho. Everyone in the neighborhood loved Goldie – well, except for old Mr. Ramsey who lived across the street in the big blue house on the corner. He made it abundantly clear that he didn’t like dogs and that we had better keep Goldie away from his yard…or else. No one was entirely sure what Mr. Ramsey meant by “or else”, but we took his words seriously, nonetheless. We had only lived in Boise for two weeks when Goldie managed to dig under the fence and make her way across the street to the alley behind Mr. Ramsey’s house. When we noticed that she was gone, Dad whistled for her. She walked very slowly out of the alley, in fact, stiffly. Dad picked her up and carried her to the back yard. She convulsed violently, and there was no doubt what had occurred. Goldie had been poisoned. She let us pet her, and wagged her tail in-between convulsions. The veterinarian arrived at our house and quickly administered drugs to counter the effects of the poison. But, it was too late. Goldie was gone. It was one of the first times I saw my Dad cry. It was because of Goldie that we all cried.