Polly was my first pet ever. I remember that day in 1990 clearly. I had just arrived home from preschool to a big surprise: a yellow labrador. Everyone instantly fell in love with her. After debating on what to name her for a while, we finally settled with the name Polly Anna, or Polly for short. As Polly grew, she became too big to be kept in the house, what with her wild and hyperactive personality, so we had to fence her up in the backyard. (She had a doghouse to hide in during bad weather.) Before moving into a new house, we left Polly with my aunt, but after living in our new house for a while, and getting a cat named Mittens, we got Polly back for a little while. Mittens usually stayed inside due to the wild dog who lived in the backyard. During Polly's rare visits indoors, she wanted to be Mittens's friend, but Mittens was scared of her. Eventually, my parents gave Polly away to a farmer in Mississippi. As children, my sister and I would often toss pennies into the fountain at the mall and wish for Polly back. Our wish never came true. We never saw Polly again, and years later, she died. Though we got a chihuahua named Ginger in August of 1993, quite a while after we had given Polly away, the pain was never eased 100%. We at least knew that she lived happily for the rest of her life. She had a much bigger backyard to run around in, other dogs to play with, and her own bed to sleep on. To our knowledge, Polly died of natural cause. Even after all these years, I still miss her.