Didgie was born the day I lost my previous dog, Rowdy (also a Texas heeler, aka Heeler/Aussie Shepherd cross). I tried to get a shelter dog, but dogs of this breed are hard to find, and I am in love with this breed. They're the best dogs for me, and Didgie was the best of the best. My husband wanted to name him Duke . . . but I rebelled and named him Didgeridoo. We compromised on Didgeri-Duke. He was Didgie, or Didge, or Didgeri-doo-dog, or Didgeri-doggy. There is so much to say about him, and it's hard to choose. First, he was MY dog, by his choosing. He loved us all, but I was his alpha, and he stuck to me like a shadow. He went everywhere with me -- room to room, or in the car, or on horseback rides (until he got scared by my neighbor's gunshots). If he couldn't go, he pouted and hid. When he could go, he loved to grab his leash and walk himself, jumping around with the leash like it was a toy. He loved the hardware and feed stores, and knew exactly where the dog toy display was. One time he reached up and chose a toy! Didgie loved most people; toddlers weren't his favorite. He loved his family, and gave a noisy, wiggly, rambunctious display when anyone came home, even from errands. It was so over-the-top, I had to teach him to sit-stay or lie down to curb the enthusiasm. For some reason, Didgie decided that my older son was below him in the pecking order, and wouldn't let my son come anywhere near his food bowl. I could have taken a steak from him, but he wouldn't let my son take a single kibble. I could go on and on. Didgie would chase a tennis ball (or a stick) all day long; I tried to teach him how to find a lost ball by teaching him hot and cold so he'd know where to look -- we were still working on that. Perhaps the happiest thing Didgie did -- the thing that best showed his love of life -- was what I call the Didgie-Derby. When we were out in the pasture, he would suddenly wind up, and run as fast as he could, making huge figure-eights, with me as the center of the eight. He'd come charging past me, sometimes almost bowling me over, and continue his big circle, and I'd yell "It's a Didgie Derby! And here he comes . . . and there he goes!" as if I was calling a horse race. Didgie suddenly started losing weight, and it was only two to three weeks after I took him to the first vet, that I had to euthanize him. He had lymphoma. He was only five happy years old. I have never experienced grief like a feel for my beloved Didgie. His love and loyalty were so uncomplicated, and gave me respite from a number of challenging relationships. I've never truly understood why people visit the graves of their loved ones . . . but I visit Didgie's grave almost every day. I bring him pieces of frog I've trimmed from horse feet, because Didgie loved to eat frog anytime I was trimming. If he'd had enough, he'd bury pieces in the shavings against the barns walls. I've never thought much about seeing my loved ones in an afterlife, but now that I've lost my Didgie, I long for an afterlife in which Didgie meets me with all his yelps and wiggles, chases his ball, herds the horses, and does Didgie-derbys forever.