I may be a little old to finally declare this, but the last lingering fundament of my youth is gone. This morning, shortly after turning 16½, Gig's heart stopped. I cried. Like a baby.

I was only 7 when he was born—April 9, 1989—and I'll soon be 24-years-old. Gig has been around for 69% of my presently short life. For a less technical explanation, Gig was my Dog, capital D. He kept me company for years, and as any pet owner-lover knows, it's more appropriate to count the days. Terribly bad, wonderfully good, and anywhere between, a day may be bettered by a pet. Just as with a person, the relationship of a pet holds memories, connections, insights, secrets, and even inside jokes.

I buried Gig beneath the apple tree that shaded him throughout his life. As a young boy, I spent countless hours playing among fallen apples with G.I. Joes, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Transformers, and He-Man, when I could find him. All missions to launch a surprise attack on Mount Gig failed.

Gig will be remembered as he was—a welcoming, bright-eyed, wagging watchdog. And a lover of all things cheese.

I miss you, Gig.

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