Dear Turbo-Dog

Dear Turbo, I never, ever thought I would leave you. I thought you would leave me. I am having a really hard time emotionally with this. You are my dearest possession. Everything else I own is only stuff. Every hurricane I said goodbye to it. But not you, you came with me. But now, you can't come. I have to let you go because I have this opportunity and I need to take it. My love for you has not changed. How can I say goodbye to you? How can I leave you?

You have been mine for nearly 14 years now. In June you turn 15 (or 16 since when I adopted you the vet said 1 or 2 years old and I picked 1.)

For the first month you didn't even have a name. I knew you were 65 pounds of lightning fast, yellow fur and I searched for a name. I once left you with the Captain and MB for the weekend, only to come home and find out they had named you Pedro...and all the neighbors were calling you Pedro! No dog of mine would be named Pedro. (although in Shirish/SV Date's book SPEEDWEEK, Turbo's alias "Pedro" stars as the hero's dog in the story!)

And yes, the first week I owned you, you dashed out the front door between my friend's legs and directly to A-1-A to be struck by a car. Bleeding from the ears and nose, madly we dashed to the Animal Clinic at Midnight to find a sleepy Vet in a Hawaaian shirt and flip flops who gave you a 10 second diagnosis, looked up at me and said "That'll be $250, pay at the door". I didn't sleep all night and called early to find you perfectly fine. As I sat in the waiting room to pick you up, an American Indian waiting for an answer about his mangled bird asked me about you. I explained what had happened and that you didn't even have a name yet. He looked up at me and said "Should call him Lucky."

But after attending the Summer Olympics in Atlanta and being served a beer from Abita Beer Company named Turbo Dog, I had your name. It just fit.

I forgive you for all the shoes you ruined in your teen age years. And all the Alpha-dog fights we had...until I won. And the fact that every friend, and the lawn guys have been out chasing you when you snuck out of the yard to explore.

The time you and your friend Boomer wandered off tied together and ended up in the Daytona Shores jail is still funny. Thank you for all the happy prances when I got home from work. And for these golden years as you have slowed down and become one big love dog.

It was because of you that I bought my house with the big back yard at the right time in the real estate market. I had rented all those years but the Landlord said no more dog. Thank you, it's the one investment that I still have.

You have converted "non-dog" people to love you. Everyone loves you. I'm not sure if your favorite dog sitters Rick and Diane are more upset to see you or me go. I vote you.

You will be loved by Mary Beth. She begged to have you. I will get to see you on Skype video often as she calls the boat everyday. I'm afraid she will try to make you a bionic dog so I have lectured her on the fact that you are 82 (according to dogyears.com.) I know you will be loved.

But I need to tell you something really hard. If it is your time to go, I give you permission. You have been such a good boy, it's okay, don't hold on for me to return. But if you do, it will be a fine reunion.

All in all, you have been the best dog, companion, investment, and entertainment that I could have ever asked or dreamed of. Thank you.

I should be called Lucky.