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On the tail of all thanksgiving madness, my grandparents dog died last night. He was pretty much like our second dog, since we always took care of him when my grandparents went on trips, and my grandparents live very nearby. In fact not three days ago at Thanksgiving a spent a good long time stroking his head. He was staring tiredly out at the commotion: he was an obsessive compulsive in dog form. Always ran in circles. Had to be walked on the EXACT HOUR or he'd have a nervous break down, all of this and then when he was tired he'd just flop down for the night in a sudden snoring heap. The thing is he was also a very intelligent, very well trained dog, who'd always make worried noises at everything but never seemed to mind it when children crawled all over him. He loved tennis balls with an unholy passion. If no one would throw him one he'd throw them to himself and you could watch him do this in the yard. Hence the name Ace. "He's a good dog," I said, on Thanksgiving. In retrospect I'm glad I did. My last memory is just sitting with him, petting his head. I'm told he went fairly peacefully, got up, paced around, then lay down like always. My parents buried him this morning.

Good dog.