In the almost 8 years we had Herbie, he brought us incredible joy. Even when he caused trouble (usually involving food), he made us laugh. Like the time he dug a whole raw turnip out of the cupboard and ate half of it, or when he climbed his way onto the table to eat enough squares for an entire Jack and Jill. He once body-checked the other pugs out of the way to eat a June bug, and broke several bags of milk in the car in the middle of summer. Once, he broke into a bag of flour on the way to pick me up from school. I had to do a double-take when he greeted me out the window with his now-white face. He was even a part of my high school play. He hummed when you pet him, and groaned when you squeezed him. He was perfect to sleep next to on cold winter nights. He was with us through times of incredible grief, and always bulldozed his way onto your lap, whether you knew you needed it or not. He spooned almost every night with our female pug, often with one arm draped over her. When he came to us, he was a whopping 38lbs, and could barely make it down the road. As he lost the weight, eventually making it down to 24lbs, he enjoyed his walks, running his crooked run and, as he got older, was determined to keep pace. If he ever got more than 20 feet ahead of us, he always stopped and waited for us. If you wore shorts in the summer, he always licked your legs when you came in the door. Most of all, he loved my mom, and she loved him. He would crash his way into the bathroom just to sit at her feet, or sleep beside the tub while she took a bath. He was her "boyfriend" and spent his last days in her arms as much as possible, searching for her when she couldn't be with him. He passed in her arms, the taste of hot dogs fresh on his tongue. We miss you already, dearest darling dear.