For years, I have made fun of this sweet animal by writing stories of her silly antics in my columns. We named her Tallulah BLANKhead for good reason, given the fact that her tail-end position in the Alpha dog pecking order appeared to be permanent.

The other four-legged female living rent-free in our house is the cat rescued from the clutches of the grim reaper. Sophie Sorrowful is an aloof feline who allows Babe and me to give her affection only when she is bored out of her mind. For the most part, she is a typical cat except for one small detail: Miz Sophie often thinks she's a dog.

Tallulah Blankhead and Sophie Sorrowful are best friends, so when Miz Blankhead's time on this earthly dog run has run its course, Miz Sorrowful will undoubtedly earn the entitlement to her given name, if not her birthright. In any case, it ain't gonna be pretty.

For fourteen years, Tallulah has been our pet, child, companion, playmate, comforter, burglar alarm and four-legged leftover-food disposal. The day she finally ascends to that all-you-can-eat canine banquet in the sky, bless her heart, she will leave behind a large, empty dog bowl and an even bigger emptiness in our lives.

Tallulah may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but there's nothing wrong with her snout at Christmastime. Did I mention that she's the only dog in town diagnosed with an eating disorder? Tallulah can sniff out a box of dog biscuits triple layered in heavy-duty holiday foil, tied with thick ribbons and secured with duct tape.

Christmas mornings I more often find that my carefully wrapped packages are no longer under the tree, but scattered all over the house. Smack in the middle of this mess, an overweight Cockapoo is flat on her back asleep, legs flopping to the sides like wilted celery stalks while she snores and farts in consecutive order.

Propped upright beside her is an empty container of Milk Bones. Unlike the rest of the mess, the box is in perfect condition as though Tallulah has taken out the treats one by one, then delicately popped them into her mouth. Yeah, like THAT could happen.

My brother and I grew up with dogs. There was Penny, and then another one whose name I can't remember, probably Nickel. After that, there was Susie Q who fell up the stairs and died while my brother was in the service. Knowing how attached he was to that dog, Mama and I cried and carried on something awful in his place.

Daddy was Police Chief in our town, so he had two prisoners from the jail to dig a hole in the back yard in which to lay the little dog to rest. With Susie Q wrapped in her raggedy old blanket in the hole, Daddy stood looking down at the gravesite while Mama and I watched from an inside window. I'd like to think Daddy was saying a few kind words about our deceased canine sibling.

As any pet lover can attest, animals often become extended family members, even substituting as children to some of us. Those who have never experienced the joy that a pet brings to a household have missed so much. People who see dog hair and fur balls and not unconditional love and devotion, might be lacking an important gene.

We are given the privilege of co-existing with our pets for a few precious years, and if you ask me, it's as if we are being served up a tiny bite of heaven.

When Tallulah finally makes it to the Pearly Gates, I have a sneaking suspicion that she will wag her stubby tail, smile in her lopsided way, and blissfully chow down on an eternity of T-Bone steaks, medium rare. I'd like to think that's what God has in store for our sweet, goofy Tallulah Blankhead, and if I know anything at all, it's that God loves dogs and all dogs go to heaven.