With these seven words, young Sluggo started a tradition that continues to this day. (Although he will admit that since he's more established with his own home and his extended family (us), he doesn't write as often as he should.

Actually, Sluggo began writing his father not because he was homesick but because he was worried that Jon was worrying about him. You see, he knew his dad would obsess over whether one of his brood was doing OK. He knew how hard it was for Dad to let him go at all!

And, when Puff Daddy arrived a few months later, the two of them kept the tradition going, writing about all kinds of topics and situations they managed to get themselves into. Unfortunately, their letters came to a screeching halt about a year later, when Puff Daddy found a weak spot in the fence and escaped, finding his way to a very busy highway where he was killed.

We miss him still; he was without a doubt the sweetest-natured dog we've ever had the pleasure of knowing. But, you know, he's always with us. When the Irises bloom in the backyard, we know Puffy stands among them, his white tail wagging as his brothers and sister romp around the yard. And sometimes, late at night, the bed sags a bit as the ghost of a little white dog hops up. And everyone sleeps just a little bit sounder as a result.