Now what? Was I to be reborn over and over, forever? Could a dog have more than one purpose? How was that possible? - W. Bruce Cameron

Funeral notice in the paper.” “I still don’t know who you’re talking about,” the other ice fisherman groused. “Dressed funny,” the guy at the other table recalled.

You be a good dog, Spike!” Senora called over to him. I looked jealously in the new dog’s direction, but his reaction to having his name spoken was to glance over as if it were nothing at all. Toby, I wanted her to say. Good dog, Toby. Instead she said, “There are no bad dogs, Bobby, just bad people. They just need love.” “Sometimes they’re broke inside, senora. And nuthin’ will help ’em.” Senora’s hand absently reached down and scratched behind Coco’s ears. I frantically shoved my nose underneath Senora’s fingers,

I remembered the boy crying the day they buried Smokey in the yard, and I hoped he wouldn’t cry over my death. My purpose, my whole life, had been to love him and be with him, to make him happy.