I was a teenager when we got him, soft and so very small when Mom and my sisters brought him home from the pound. That night, my brother and I had the sole duty of watching him. For more than an hour, the Nebraska springer-spitz chased a bottle around the living room, his hindquarters nearly flipping him over he was so bad at running.
Roni wasn't a dog who did tricks. He wasn't a dog that played fetch. He wasn't a dog that scared people away. Roni was a good soul. He was playful when he wanted to be, loved to be petted and didn't mind spending a whole day sleeping in his own, private area. But get him mad, as my dad could tell you, and he would poop in your "area of the house" when you weren't around -- always funny. With the exception of one occasion involving my nephew, Roni suffered from his bark being infinitely worse than his bite. He was loyal and loving to all of us, fiercely loyal above all else to Mom. He was a great dog.
And I am saddened greatly today.
As my dad said, his death has been "a terrible thing to think about".
