When I was about ten, my family wanted to get me a dog for my birthday. We lived in a not-so-great neighborhood, so we needed a watchdog. We got the dog from the pound the day before he was going to be put to sleep (talk about a lucky dog). He was a little black Scottish terrier, and he looked like the dog Dorothy had in The Wizard of Oz. My mom named him Toto. Since he was my dog, I was responsible for training him. I taught him to sit, stay, speak, fetch, and nip at people if they came into our yard. We became really close friends.
About a year later, on his birthday and the day before mine, something tragic happened. Being like any other dog, he saw a squirrel and went tearing off after it. He tore right through the gate that was accidentally left open, with me running after him. He followed the squirrel right into the middle of traffic, with me stopping at the curb and staring in horror as he chased the thing right down the road. The next thing I knew, he was rolling down the street. A car had hit him. The man who hit him stopped for a moment and then drove off leaving my dog in the street. I went over to see if Toto was okay, but as I picked him up and walked back to the sidewalk, he licked my face and died right in my arms.
Now I have a new dog, but she will never be the same as my Toto. I love the new dog, and they both mean a lot to me, but I still think about Toto.