Go Home came into our lives six years ago. A large woman holding a small dog rang our doorbell asking if he were our dog. I told her it was not and she started crying. She said that she had nearly hit him on the road and that she'd driven up and down looking for his owner. Someone at the local sheriff's office told her to call the pound on Monday and that they could identify the owner from his rabies tag. Her child had asthma and she couldn't bring the small dog home and she was sure it would be killed if she let it back down.
Reluctantly I agreed to keep the dog for the weekend. Breland called the dog pound on Monday and then daily for the next three weeks. We searched the newspaper and drove around looking for Lost Dog signs. The pound couldn't find his paper work and no one was looking for this sweet little silky terrier.
Our grandson visited and asked the dog's name. We replied that we didn't know his name and weren't going to give him one. This dog was going home. So C said, OK, I'll call him Go Home. And so, as we realized that we'd now gained a dog, we began calling him Go Home.
Go Home traveled with us all over the United States and on our long trip across Canada to Alaska. He loved travel and always wanted to sit on the front seat to watch the passing scenery.
Born with an internal clock, he demanded that Breland maintain a strict schedule. Breakfast at seven, a treat at 11, a walk to visit the neighbor at five and at ten p.m. Breland had to go to bed because Go Home said it was time.
We lost out beloved Go Home two days before Christmas. The weekend before he was very quiet and not eating. On Monday he was lethargic and almost limp. Breland called our vet's emergency number and the vet drove in on his day off to see Go Home. He tested and treated him. The next day Go Home was even worse and the tests that day showed acute leukemia. On Wednesday Go Home died in Bre's arms.