I'm not sure how my parents managed it, but our belief in Santa Clause remained in tact for quite a long time. So, when my older brother Petey was 7 and asked for a puppy for Christmas, they went to great lengths to preserve the magic for all of us (I was 6; my older sister Cordelia was 8; and my younger brother Tommy, pictured above, was 4). They picked up the border collie mix from the kennel on Christmas Eve and he stayed in a neighbor's garage over night. When we came piling down stairs on Christmas morning, the cutest puppy in the world was there to greet us. The pup was so happy that Petey named him "Happy." And Happy was the best family dog. Ever. He put up with the antics of six kids (my younger sister Tricia arrived the next year and my youngest brother Carlos two years later), offering unconditional love and a steady presence throughout our lives. He was well known to the neighbors and animal control folks, too, because he insisted on patroling the neighborhood each morning (walking around the block, with his collar and i.d. tags jangling away), no matter how hard we tried to keep him within our yard. He lived to be almost twenty years old. When it was clear his time on earth was through, my brother Petey came home from college. Petey gave Happy a bath, dried him, brushed him and then walked him over to the local vet (about half a mile away) to say good-bye to our childhood friend. Who had been a gift from Santa. But so much more than just a present.
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