The first day Mikey was home, I couldn't go anywhere. I finally turned around and yelled "stop following me." And he immediately sat and looked up at me as if to say, "Like this? Is this what you mean?” I ran up to him, fell to my knees, threw my arms around him and never yelled at him again. Fifteen years later, when the euthanasia guy came to the house to "help him along," Mike even wiggled up to him and started kissing his hand. That's the kind of dog he was. He even greeted death with love.