“All right, then, call him Dog X.” I suggested. They frowned, but I thought it the perfect handle for something I hoped would float away like a generic soap powder.

　　My no-named strategy proved a dismal failure, however. Long　before the pup was weaned, the kids secretly began calling him　Scampy, and before I knew it he had become as much a fixture as the fireplace.And just as immovable.

　　All of this could have been avoided, I fumed, if Andy, a　neighborhood mutt, had only stayed on his side of the street. But at age fourteen, this scruffy, arthritic mongrel hobbled into our yard for a tê te-a- tê te with our blue blooded schnauzer, Heidi, who was a ten years Old Maid. We were unaware that Andy had left his calling card until the middle of one night during our spring vacation in Florida. I thought the moaning noise was the ocean. But investigation revealed it was coming from Heidi, whom Shirley, my wife, pronounced in labor.When morning brought no relief or delivery, we found a vet who informed us that a big pup was blocking the birth canal, which could be fatal to Heidi. We wrung our hands for the rest of the day, phoning every couple of hours for an update. Not until evening was our dog pronounced out of danger.

　　“She was carrying three,” the doctor reported, “but only one survived.” The kids took one look at the male pup, a ragamuffin ball of string, and exclaimed, “Andy! He looks just like Andy.”

　　“Have you ever seen anything so homely?” I asked Shirley.“He’ s adorable,” she answered admiringly. “I only hope someone else thinks so. His days with us are numbered.” But I might as well have saved my breath. By the time Dog X reached ten weeks, our kids were more attached to him than barnacles to a boat’s bottom. I tried to ignore him.One thing I could not deny: he had the ears of a watchdog, detecting every sound that came from the driveway or yard. When the kids went off on their bikes or I put on my jogging shoes, he wanted to go along. If left behind, he chased squirrels. Occasionally, by now, I slipped and called him Scampy.

　　Then in the fall, after six months of family nurture an dadoration, Scampy suffered a setback. Squealing brakes announced he had chased one too many squirrels into the street. The accident fractured his left hind leg, which the vet put in a splint. We were all relieved to hear his prognosis: complete recovery. But then a week later the second shoe dropped.

　　“Gangrene,” Shirley told me one evening. “The vet says amputate or he’ll have to be put to sleep.” I slumped down in a chair.“There’s little choice,” I said. “It’s not fair to make an active dog like Scampy struggle around on three legs the rest of his life.” Suddenly the kids, who had been eavesdropping, flew into the room.“They don’t kill a person who has a bad leg.” Steve and Laraine argued.Buying time, I told them, “We’ll decide tomorrow.” After the kids were in bed, Shirley and I talked. “It will be hard for them to give up Scampy,” She sympathized.