In the summer of 1967, when I was only a ten-year-old boy, my father couldn’t stand my repeated begging, so he gave in and agreed to give me a dog that belonged to me.My father drove me in the family station wagon to a farm in rural Michigan run by a carefree woman and her elderly mother.The farm produces just one product—dogs, dogs of all sizes, shapes, ages and temperaments.These dogs have only two things in common: each dog is a crossbreed of unknown origin; each dog can be given away to a kind family for free.We are in the midst of such a large farm of mongrel dogs. "Now, take your time, son," said the father. "The decisions you make today will stay with you for many years to come."

I quickly decided that older dogs were an option for other charities, and immediately ran to the crates with the puppies. "You need to pick a dog that isn't too timid," my father instructs me. "Try shaking the cage to make it rattle, and see which ones aren't scared." I grabbed the chain-linked cage door and yanked it, making a loud clang of metal.About a dozen puppies began to wobble and back away, falling one after the other, one on top of the other in a writhing mass of fur.Only one puppy is still standing.The dog was golden yellow with a dazzling white patch on his chest, and he slammed his body against the cage door, barking without fear.He jumped up and excitedly licked my fingers through the fence.When I saw him at first sight, I fell in love with him.

I brought him home in a cardboard box and named him Sean.Sean is a pretty good name for a puppy.He had no trouble mastering every command move I taught him, and he did it naturally and well.I can put a crust on the ground and Sean won't touch it until I say "Ok."When I call him, he will come to my side.We can let him go out alone at night, because we know he will come back after his rounds.We can also leave him alone in the house for hours, although we don't do this very often because we trust him not to urinate or break anything in the house.He races cars, but doesn't chase them.He walks next to me without a collar around his neck.He can dive to the bottom of the lake, and when he emerges from the lake, he often holds stones in his mouth, and these stones are so big that they often hurt his jaw.His favorite thing to do is to go for a drive in a speeding car. On family trips, he will sit quietly in the back seat with me, content to spend hours gazing out the window at the world speeding by. .Perhaps the best thing that ever happened was that I trained him to tow me on the neighbor's dog sled while I sat on my bike.This undoubtedly made me the envy of my friends.He never once put me in danger.

He was with me when I smoked my first cigarette (and last), when I kissed my first girlfriend.When I took my first sneaky drive in my brother's car, he sat next to the driver's seat. Sean is full of energy, lively and brave, but he knows how to restrain himself and obey his master's instructions; he is full of emotion, but calm and composed.Even before he crouched for convenience, he would hide his body in the undergrowth, sticking only his head out.This politeness made him look dignified.Thanks to his neat habit, we can walk on the lawn with bare feet. Relatives would visit us on the weekends and when they returned home they decided to get a dog of their own as well because Sean made such an impression on them, or "Saint Sean" I sometimes Call him that.Due to an innate curse of indeterminate pedigree, he is one of thousands of abandoned dogs in the United States.Then, by a stroke of luck, people wanted him again.He came into my life, and I came into his—and in the process, he gave me the kind of childhood every child aspires to have.

The deep relationship between me and him lasted for fourteen years, and when he died, I was no longer the little boy who brought him home.I was a grown man, out of college, and had my first real job in western Michigan.When I left my parents' house for work, St. Sean stayed.My parents, who were also retired by then, tactfully told me the bad news over the phone.My mother later told me: "In my fifty years of marriage, I have only seen your father cry twice. The first time was when we lost Mary Ann,"—Ann was My sister, who died when she was born—"The second time was the day Sean died."

St. Sean was my whole childhood.It is a perfect dog.At least that's how I always remember him.Sean established the standard by which I would judge all other subsequent dogs.