A few years back, some friends found that they were unable to care for their seven year old, female black Labrador. We agreed to look after her for the time being, with a six-month window to determine if she'd stay with us for good.

Within a week, Sparky, the headstrong soul of merriment, had made the decision to stay with us the rest of her days. If you think it may be a challenge for a grown dog to fit into a new household, it's even more so when the household already includes a vigorous pair of male Labrador twin littermates. Sparky would never hold back, or take second place for food, fun, and affection, even in the company of our pair of Alpha galoots.

She arrived weighing 88 pounds, a not inconsiderable load for an "English" Lab, shorter and stockier than most of her breed. She was prone to frequent spells of lameness, due to arthritis, and the energy of her personality was somewhat unharnessed. A change in her diet, and her discovery of our pond, soon had her down to 67 pounds, and her lameness diminished to a day or two every few months. Soon her irrepressible personality was socialized through our training regimen which, I'll admit, consisted mainly of telepathy and osmosis and a bit of slack.

As is the wont of her breed, she was polite with humans, and gently sociable with other animals; her lifelong pursuit of The Fetch, and her love of swimming in the pond on any day that she couldn't walk on top of it, were constant all of her life. At rest, she'd doze through any kind of music, often with her grizzly little chin resting on some part of somebody's body. One of her most charming quirks was her discovery that food grows on trees, in the form of an apple tree out back. Once the apples ripened, her trips to the pond and back always went by way of that tree, which abetted Spark's appetite by gradually overturning and sagging, bringing more of the harvest within her daily reach.

About four years ago, as we were tending to her arthritis, x-rays revealed what our vet said was the worst case of hip displaysia she'd seen. This is a congenital deterioration of the hips, which often necessitates that dogs be put down before their time. But mere physical reality was no match for headstrong merriment. She continued to pursue her and our happiness, including joining the galoots in swimming after us on a four mile kayak paddling excursion. The return journey saw all three dogs in my tandem, dozing in the sun as I paddled back carrying my cargo of 230 pounds of retreivers, with two inches of freeboard showing above the water.

Her happy canine dotage continued, through the passing of her older step-brothers, and the acquisition of our youngest pack member, Maybelline, another black Labrador retriever. Mabel, displaying that same kindly socialization we've found in all of our retrievers, played gently with our old granma dog, teasing and grooming her, swimming with her, and running in orbit about her as Sparky would nest in the tall grass at the edge of our meadow.

Eventually, though, will is no match for time and entropy, and lately the veterinary pharmacopoeia was having a hard time keeping up with the pain from Spark's advancing physical problems. So, once again, we had to bring to our vets the saddest part of their practice. As she dozed, with her chin resting in the crook of my arm like hundreds of times before, she was eased from this world, once again to be a part of all good dogs.

She's buried next to the same raspberry thicket as some other beloved canine pals, in a spot where she liked to sun herself and watch me work in the garden. In the interest of cosmic balance, maybe I'll plant an apple tree there.

I'm really curious about the next bounding harvest, that always seems to follow, after I've planted yet another good dog out back!

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We commune with our canine friends as part of one of the oldest sucker's games in creation.

We get the best part of the deal in each of these relationships; we know it, and the dogs don't care. This is true for them all, from the most petite little curly clown, to the great, shambling galoots. When their time is at its end, we are left owing the canine world yet another debt. Which we can only attempt to discharge - through our next canine pal. And so the wheel keeps turning.

With each dog, our relationship is informed by those we've had with all of our dogs. That's why I like to say that when our time with our old dogs come to an end, they become a part, once again, of all good dogs.

That's what they are, now and for all time.

They'll be back; they'll all be back. You know it when, once more, bright eyes lock on yours, and a lanky tongue polishes a smile, just for you.

Never Gen. Colin Powell. He completely failed his nation under George W Bush. Don't send a boy - of any age - to do a man's job.

Additionally, I wouldn't take away any Democrat from Congress, unless it's one from a safe Dem seat - and that includes Sen. Clinton, as a choice I'd accept.

Better yet, how about John Edwards?

...you'd better raise your kids with a healthy attitude towards sexuality, or else they'll grow up into prigs who'll shut down your sex life, when you're in the nursing home.

There is also abundant, alarming evidence that a significant share of Clinton primary voters are currently peeved enough to stay home in November or vote for John McCain.

Any sources for that claim? Besides somebody yakking in a diner somewhere?

How do we know - "abundant"?

How do we know - "alarming"? And is this more so than in other primaries? Data please?