It was the Advent of Christmas 1996. Our son John, age 13, had a well prepared list of gift “suggestions” for his parents. He delighted in the challenge of getting what he wanted out of dear ol’ mom and dad.

Meanwhile, our son Joe had a different approach. He never asked for anything, and seemed happy with any gift he received. So when he finally asked for a specific present, we were a bit shaken. He asked for a dog.

When we married, Lenny and I made a deal that we would never have a dog. But when this wonderful little boy asked for a puppy, we knew that it was the right thing to do.

Dad and son decided upon a beagle. They picked him up a few days before Christmas. Joe named him “Happy.” Boy and dog became inseparable. We could find Happy burrowed under the covers on Joe’s bed, or I would find the two of them lying on the floor playing. Happy and Joe belonged together.

Of course, even though Joe promised he would take care of Happy, all of the dog maintenance fell to me because I was there. Happy and I developed a love/hate relationship. His face … that beagle face … that beagle howl that could wake the dead, became part of every waking hour and occasionally the nighttime hours. Whenever I yelled for Joe, he would echo, “Jo-ohhhh.”

Happy befriended everyone who walked through the door. I used to say he had a “greeting” disorder. No one set foot on our front porch without provoking the howl.

Joe will be turning 24 this year. He has lived here off and on since high school, but during the first week of March, he moved into an apartment leaving Happy with me. He noticed that Happy wasn’t well, and asked me to take him to the vet. On March 5, the tests came back, and Happy had abdominal cancer. Joe asked me to make a final appointment with the vet.

On Saturday, March 7, Joe came by to pick up Happy. The boy and his dog drove to Dick’s Drive In, where Joe bought a cheeseburger and fries for his little buddy. Then they stopped at a pizza place, and Joe let Happy eat a slice of the pie that had been off-limits for his whole life. Happy died happy in the arms of his boy.

I once heard a joke about three old men who were debating when life begins. One insisted life begins at conception. The second said he thought life began at birth. The third said, “You guys are fools. Life begins when the last kid leaves home and takes the dog with him.”

I guess our life has just begun. But it sure is quiet around here.

Patty Luzzi has lived on the Eastside for 31 years. Readers can contact her at pattyluzzi@yahoo.com.