Gordon L. and Dorothy F. Howell

My family’s affection for dogs extends back in time to my father’s youth. He came from a family of humble means; they had a small farm just outside of Atlanta in the old Campbell County. While my grandfather, an electrician, went off to work, Dad was left to work the farm each day after school, using two mules and a handheld plow. He dreamed of attending college and going on to veterinary school, but that was not to be for a boy who came of age in the Great Depression of the 1930s. Instead, he joined the United States Navy in 1938 and eventually became a chief machinist mate. On one of the ships to which my father was assigned, there was a dog named Sparky, as befitting an engine room mascot. Years later, when my brother was 6 and I was 10 years old, our family got a puppy for Christmas, and we named him Sparky, too.

Personally, I think that when a child has experienced the joy of having a dog as a companion, the desire to share one’s life with dogs never goes away. My husband and I have had four dogs (as well as four cats!) over the years. We went for walks and hiked and camped with our dogs; we slept together and celebrated birthdays and holidays together. I simply cannot imagine ever being able to live without a dog. My brother, Michael, wanted to share his life with a dog, too.

Michael graduated from North Fulton High School in 1967. After serving in the Army, Mike used his GI benefits to go to college, graduating from West Georgia College in 1974. By that time I was married and living in California with my husband, George, and Mike decided to take several weeks to drive out on Interstate 40 to visit us, stopping frequently to explore the various National Parks and Monuments. It was in Albany, California (near Berkeley), that he adopted a little 6-week-old Australian shepherd mix. Mike named the puppy Sidney at first, but “Sidney” didn’t much care for that name. He then became Sierra because he perked up his ears every time Mike started talking to him about the Sierra Mountains they were crossing on the way home.

Unfortunately, my brother and Sierra were together for only about a year until Michael was killed in an automobile accident. He was only 26 years old, and there would always be an empty place in my family’s hearts. Sierra then became my parents’ dog, and they took care of him for the rest of his life. Dad used to say that Sierra was a “living connection” to Michael.

Submitted by Donna Lawson, sister