Our family struggled for a few days trying to decide what to name the puppy. One afternoon we discovered that he had broken into a case of Mountain Dew cans, carried one out into the yard, and began to drink all of the contents. The obvious name choice was “Dewey”.
Every summer when I would mow the law, Dewey would get super excited. Once our trailer behind the four-wheeler was full of grass clippings I would go across the farmyard, through the gates leading to the pasture and Dewey would run beside me every step of the way. He loved to chase the cows out of my way, and then go for a quick swim in the canal before we would head back to the house. 
Sunday afternoons during the summer would generally lead to my family all lounging out on the front porch while Brock would play with the grandkids and Clay would hit golf balls into the surrounding hay fields. Most of us would end up sitting on the grass. Dewey was quick to slither up next to you, wait for the right moment, and then proceed to nudge his head into your lap in hopes of you scratching behind his ears. Everyone would get annoyed with him and tell him, “GO AWAY, DEWEY!” He’d slink away to the flower garden, wait a few minutes, then belly-crawl back to try again. (It was probably the cutest thing he did.)
One Spring my mom and I decided to take Dewey to the vet for his annual check-up. We had him in the back of my dad’s truck while driving on the main highway from Preston to Richmond. Once we had passed Pepperidge Farm someone caught up to us and told us to pull over because our dog fell out of the truck a little ways back (while we were going 60 mph!). We were positive he was dead on the side of the road. After we circled back, we drove for a ways and we never saw him. We decided to go over to the smoking area outside Pepperidge. There we found our sweet Dewey, loving all the ear-scratches and attention from the ladies outside. (No physical injuries were sustained in his fall; he timed it just right and rolled into the tall grass off the road.)
A few weeks ago my parents found Dewey lying dead on our neighbors law across the farmyard. My dad took him down over the hill to the area of trees where we kids used to play in our tree house when we were little. There he buried him and spoke a few words (since my dad has had plenty of experience conducing funerals in his +18 months as Bishop). “You were a good dog, Dewey. You never met a person you didn’t like. You’ll be missed.”
