Dyguleon had always been a sickly dog, and no one thought he would live as long as he did. He had lost his sight when he was three, but somehow he adapted, and somehow he managed to jump up on two legs and paw at me each day. As soon as I could get him to calm down, I continued on my way home, and he plodded after me.

“Dyguleon, down,” Mom said as he went to greet her. “I swear that dog’s faking his blindness.”

“Naw, he’s just smart,” I said.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’ll be along,” I replied.

“I swear,” Mom said, “that man would be late to his own funeral if there was work to be done.”