Dear Tin,

When I was in my twenties, married and living a few miles away from my parents, my father had a dog that was really a pest. He chewed shoes, tore up pillows and dish towels, dug holes in the yard, and was just not a very pleasant pet in my estimation.

I asked my father a few times why he didn't just take Dusty to the pound. The dog couldn't have been a pleasure to own. He rarely answered me, and then one day he said-

"I keep this dog because I owe him my life- not him personally, but dogs like him- nameless, faceless dogs that died so that when I had a heart attack in 1969, enough research had been done, and enough experiments had been performed, mostly on dogs, so that the doctors knew just how to save me .

So as annoying as he can get, every once in a while, when he comes to me and puts his head in my lap, and I look into his eyes, I just have to say- Thanks."

We lost dad in 1995. He was 74 years old. Reading your story about Tom made me think about my Dad- and I just wanted to say-"Thanks"
Sincerely,
Christine