My sweet Coco was much like a feline deity, born from ancient days of Egyptian glory. His beauty, elegance, and massive ability to love surpassed boundaries, leaving their mark in a connection beyond the norm. I always swore he was smarter than any human I knew. Somehow, he could convey his needs and thoughts in a telepathic way that amazed even me. Coco and I had a deal: whoever went first needed to return and visit the other. He has remained true in this promise, visiting in my dreams when least expected. Needless to say, the reunions are achingly bittersweet.

Samuel was the one I could go to, the one that would calm me down when filled with rage and anger, trying to force its way into hate. Then I'd see that face. He loved me, no matter how I was feeling. He'd look up at me, I'd slow down, then we'd run.

Up to the apple trees, when they were bare I'd give him a loose branch, if there were apples, ripe or not, I would toss him one wait a minute, and take off again.

With Samuel, I could forget everything that plagued my mind only minutes before.

Scooby was my first, a German shepherd with luxurious fur, and boundless energy. He grew into a gentle giant with big brown eyes that felt like deep pools of warmth and loyalty. I always came home to him wagging his bushy tail in excitement. When it rained, he would snuggle into his space and curl up into a ball, waiting out the cold and rain for playtime in the freshly filled puddles.

When my Scooby got sick, his big brown eyes shrunk. By the end, he was a little fur ball, still with a wet nose and a warm heart.

Small Cat has white socks and a white mustache. She’s a matriarch with mocha markings and a heart of gold. She’s a hunter; once, she killed a gray squirrel big as she was. My foster-mother, my baby, she’s both. Why should something like that have to suffer so? I always try to give her a treat on her birthday. She’s partial to yogurt and she thanks me by sitting back on her haunches, lifting up those little stocking front feet, and bonking her head on my hand. Just make it one more year, old girl. We need you down here.

My dog is named Sable. She knocks on my door every time she wants to come into my room for the night. She leaves me alone when I'm over stimulated and comforts me when I'm sad. She has been by my side longer than any human and knows me better than my closest friends. She is my companion and my commandant. She is loyal even when I don't deserve it. And, no matter how many times I yell and shout when I get home, just trying to relieve my chest of its burden, I am there for her too, always.

Red Heeler Jack Russell Cross the finest little white red specked dog in the Hills, the quickest snake killer his name going down in legend to take a black snake bite and survive to go for hours days missing and ending up on the front page of the local paper leading some protest come parade, taking on a German Shepherd three times his size to come back torn and bloody it's not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog, a legend, a scrapper, a king of dogs to be remembered.

”Lokes” came into our lives at a time we needed him most. After experiencing a brutal and heartbreaking miscarriage, my wife found herself in a bad place.

Then came Loki, our little man sold under the false pretense of being a labradoodle. He was a ball of fur and boundless energy. Unknown to him, he helped stitch our hearts back together. Our little white fluff isn’t just a dog, he’s a symbol of healing. A year later, my wife was pregnant again and we had our son. All these years later, although getting older he still has that boundless energy.

Here's the kicker, he wasn't even mine. I only knew him for fifteen days.

My family was on vacation to my Father's little pueblo in nowhere Mexico.

And we stayed with my Aunt who had a whole cabal of four dogs. A skunk blotched, arrogant kind of dog who sauntered as he walked. Canela, who was quite a rough Mother.

And the light haired Chauplin.

But Ratoncito-- who had two other names-- Mirruna and Ghandi, he was a tiny puppy with paws too big for his body.

Walked like a soldier.

March on in the clouds and leap in fjords.

My friend, Bennett, had a dog, a black lab. When she died, he called me, crying until 5 a.m., or until his dad found us in the street and hauled him home in a fury. Bennett told me how he confided in her. How lost he'd be without her.

Brandii and Bennii were our cats. I didn't talk to them or personify them, but I loved them. Brandii had a lot of kittens. Often, five at a time. Bennii was one of hers. My sister raised him until she moved away. I didn't talk to my cats, but they listened.

I once had a childhood dog and cat. I called us the three musketeers. An unlikely match, all born together, growing older together. A great white Pyrenees, a fluffy gray cat, and me. Every birthday we would take pictures. Just this year when it was our thirteenth birthday, Momo, my dog died.

I hugged him before school, like I do everyday. When I ran to say hi to Momo, he wasn't there. He was sleeping endlessly in the garden, I sat there crying. Now my pictures only have two and a stone. Now I watch my cat slowly leave too.