All dogs go to...

2007: The day we brought Brady (left) home from the shelter
to be a friend to Morgan (right).

"Where's Brady?"

It's a question I dread having to answer. What do I say? How do I tell my two year old one of her "puppies" got ran over? Do I just tell her the truth?

Do I tell her he went to live with Jesus? Even as I type that I snicker, thinking of Brady tearing through doggy heaven, knocking things over, splashing through any water he could find, and wallowing in heavenly cow dung. (Yes, he had an addiction to rolling in bovine poo, although in heaven it probably wouldn't smell bad.)

If I'm being honest, I have to admit Brady was often a pain. We brought him home from the Humane Society in the spring of 2007, and the first thing he did was fling our rug across the living room, bark nonstop at the TV, smoke detector and any other object he didn't recognize, and pee on our couch in the basement. Needless to say, we didn't get off to a good start.

But I believed in Brady. I knew that under that bumbling, hyper, furry exterior was a sweet, loyal dog. And I was right. He was the perfect cuddle companion while I was recovering from surgery after losing our baby in 2008. He also had a fierce side, which he only let come out when I felt threatened by someone while taking him for a walk. And he was the perfect sidekick for our first-born fur baby Morgan.

I'm sure if Morgan could talk she would ask about Brady, too. And I suppose I could tell both her and Anna the truth. I can't be sure of where dogs go after they die, so I could tell them, "He's down at the creek." Because somewhere, in some distant place, he probably is. We'll miss you Bubba.