Jack Murphy took that dog everywhere but the newsroom: hunting, fishing, even drinking. I worked with him for three years at the San Diego Union-Tribune. Jack was so courtly and kind that when he passed away in 1980, the young reporters were as stricken as those who’d known him for decades. His old pals tended to be less reverential about Abe of Spoon River, however.

“That dog couldn’t find a skunk in a phone booth,” a former colleague of ours revealed. Abe of Spoon River died after being hit by a car at 13. In his eulogy, Murphy wrote, “Abe is everywhere in the house, but I can’t find him.”

Jack-the-Dog was once hit by a car, too, when I was walking him off-leash. The collision made a frightening thud, and the impact knocked him out of his collar. Stunned, he got up and ran home. Nine hundred dollars later, after an MRI (his) and a near-heart attack (mine), the vet couldn’t find a scratch on him. “He’s a tough little soldier,” she said after warning me about the leash. Jack smiled at that description—and rewarded us by living another nine years. He smiled a lot, actually, which is why his nickname was “Happy Jack.”

The car accident happened at Halloween time. Jack never saw the car coming. When it hit him he was looking at scary decorations in a neighbor’s yard that included “Nightmare on Elm Street” figures. He never did learn to be afraid of cars, but for years, men wearing hats unnerved him. In the end, what got our little guy was cancer, not a car. He went downhill fast. His last few days were tough ones. Jack-the-Dog is everywhere in this house. I just can’t find him.