I had two dogs growing up a Yorkshire Terrier, the runt of the litter that no one paid attention to, and a scared but extremely sweet mutt, that resembled Zeus from the movie Zeus and Roxanne. Pooka and Kiska lived very long lives. Pooka wasn't the brightest of the bunch; he was a perpetual child, even in his old age. The best word to describe him would be 'spunky.' The first time he escaped our house I was terrified and worried the same amount a parent would have been. I was panicking and every worst case scenario ran through my head. It was at night, and coyotes were rampant. I called and called and called. The faint jingle of his collar captured my attention. His small body sprinted towards me as if he had regretted what he had done. It wasn't until years and years after they had passed (they passed within a month of each other) that I chose to care for another dog. I wasn't completely emotionally prepared to make that commitment, so I fostered another lovingly sweet dog. This time it was an 80-lb, three-legged Great Dane. For two weeks, she ventured with me and my friend on an epic road trip from the southernmost Oregon to the Whitehorse in the Yukon Province.