9. A dog loves you when you leave your clothes on the floor.

8. A dog limits its time in the bathroom to a quick drink.

7. A dog never expects you to telephone.

6. A dog will not get mad at you if you forget its birthday.

5. A dog does not care about the previous dogs in your life.

4. A dog does not get mad at you if you pet another dog.

3. A dog never expects flowers on Valentine's Day.

2. The later you are, the happier a dog is to see you.

When Rip arrived at our home at seven weeks of age, we planned on him being special. In terms of his pedigree, he had "blue blood". He was a retriever field trial champion waiting to happen. His life, however, took a different turn but was special none the less.

At about two years of age, he was a large, handsome, clownish, people-loving lab with the heart and playfulness of a puppy; characteristics he would never outgrow. A serious life-threatening illness almost took him from us about that age. He spent three months at The Ohio State Veterinary Hospital surviving a "twisted stomach" and more complications than can be imagined. With each complication, his chances of survival were minimal. Eventually the staff stopped quoting the odds because he beat them every time. Our joy at having a healthy dog again was often qualified by reflection on the circumstances that contributed to his survival. Many times we discussed how it almost seemed there was a "plan" or "it was meant to be". The doctors had even expressed that he had a "will to live" they had never seen before.

Rip returned home and after a few more months of recuperation, he continued his training. Within a year he had become "qualified all-age" in the field trial game. We thought that was pretty special for a dog who should not have been alive.

Some two years later, Rip again got sick. Our vet, Ann Ayer, who provided the initial care during his previous illness so he could survive the flight to Ohio State, was called on again to save his life. After extensive testing, we could find no reason for his latest illness. He was dying and we didn't know why. Ann decided that exploratory surgery might provide the answer and it did. Two days later, Rip returned home with a belly-full of bright pink stitches and moved into the house to recuperate.

At this point we realized that Rip was not going to be the field champion we had planned. We decided to retire him from the retrieving game. He'd made his mark on the world in other ways and was now in the house to stay. We had our happy, bouncy, "puppy" again and that's all that mattered.

The next years were full of Rip incidences and stories. He was cheerful, entertaining and glad to be wherever there were people to greet. He was sure they had come just to see him. Even at ten years of age, he would occasionally chew up a shoe, get in the garbage, and play with our puppy. They'd sometimes get so rambunctious we'd have to scold and settle them down. Some white hairs were showing on his muzzle and toes, but he appeared not to age.

We lost Rip about six months after his tenth birthday and that's when the final plan for his life on this earth presented itself.

As promised, Dr. Ayer and her husband, Robbie arrived. They had tools in hand to dig Rip's grave. This certainly was beyond the call of duty. I knew there was no way I could ever repay them for helping.

When we went to the kennel to remove his body, we found the cat resting near his head. Ann told me that Kitty understood what had happened. She told me we also needed to let Madeline see Rip so she too would understand that Rip was gone. I brought Maddie from the house on a leash and we headed across the field. She began dragging me so I let her go. She ran right to where his body was laying on the ground, sniffed him all over and licked his face. It was her moment of closure.

Our friend and Rip's other "momma", Beverly, had arrived. I took her hand; we said our good-byes and put Rip in the ground. Robbie and Ann hugged me and left.

Except for some time for grieving, I knew I'd gradually become used to Rip not being here. At the moment, however, it all seemed so empty. I tried to concentrate on how I could express my gratitude to Ann and Robbie for taking such care of us all. I needn't have worried. Rip found a way. Later that evening, Ann called me and said, "There's an end to Rip's story that I want you to know."

Ann, Robbie and their two children live in the same structure that houses the veterinary clinic. Not long after Ann and Robbie left my home that evening, the children called their mobile phone to tell them there was an electrical fire under the kitchen sink. Wiring to the dishwasher had shorted. Robbie told them how to shut off the breakers and they sped home. Except for some smoke, there was minimal damage. They certainly had had a busy evening, but not the one they had planned.

Ann and Robbie don't routinely provide burial service for clients but the circumstances that evening led them to help and put plans for a family outing on hold. If John had been home we'd have taken care of Rip's burial ourselves and the Ayer's family outing would have taken place. The fire would have started with no one there. Their home and the clinic would all have been lost. Just as we believed those years ago, that Rip's survival was meant to be, it seems there was a plan for his dying as well. It was "meant to be" and that brings comfort to us all.

Thank you "Ripper". We will always love you.