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My sister Ginny started a pet cemetery over twenty years ago. The span of her family's life can be revisited in this garden resting spot. There's Baco and Pinot, from the early years when Claire and Andrew were little, Shelby, Frank, and Twinkie who lived through the high school days, many ducks and chickens from Ginny's poultry phase, several kittens who didn't live long enough to be named, and now Alfie, the wire-haired terrier. The memorial plot is in a sunny corner of the wooded land, near the vegetable garden, and under enormous fir trees. There are rock cairns, small banners, and wooden stakes marking each dog or cat's name and lifespan. The poultry group, however, is more generic.

Ginny and Claire (then sixteen—now twenty-one) lobbied relentlessly for a second dog after Dinah grew out of her obnoxious puppy/teenager stage. Ron (the husband/dad) has a soft spot for animals and, as he was outnumbered anyway, finally agreed. Ginny and Claire searched for days through the many pet rescue websites looking for a smallish, terrier-like dog and finally found one in Bothell—some distance from Vashon. When they picked him up the foster family seemed strangely enthusiastic about finding a home for the little terrier and in parting said, "He has issues."

And that he did. He had a little dog's complex—snappish, aggressive, and ready to take on anyone, anytime, any size. He once bit Claire on the leg while she slept—who knows why. Maybe Claire was hogging the twin bed, maybe she talked in her sleep, maybe she touched his tail. Alfie hated to have his tail touched. While still in the yearning-for-a-second-dog stage, Ginny planned what good pals Dinah and Alfie would be—sleeping together, playing together, bonding and laughing in the way only dogs can. Never happened.

Dinah was definitely willing—but Alfie refused. Dinah eventually gave up and the two dogs co-existed as wary stepbrothers. The only living soul, including the cats, dogs, chickens, and ducks, Alfie tolerated was Ginny, he loved Ginny. She walked him, fed him, groomed him and could even touch his tail. He didn't travel well, so consequentially was often left at home. While Ginny was gone, Alfie paced, whined, moaned and fretted. When she did return, he greeted her with pathetic relief. She did feel the burden of his unrelenting ardor and hated to leave him for long.

He never had that happy dog face—you know the eye-sparkling, tongue-panting, ear-perking, tail wagging demeanor a dog in joy has. The only time he was truly happy was when Ginny took him to the high school sport's field and let him run loose. His ears flopped, the lips parted in a goofy grin, and his tail fanned out behind him like feathers. He ran like the wind and hated to come back—but he would for Ginny.