Gigi was a dark-silver miniature poodle. I have no idea where she was born. My husband found her along a busy road not far from our house when he was on his way to work one morning. Her coat was matted and filthy. We thought we were lucky that she had dog tags until we called her former veterinarian and learned her elderly owner had died; they had no idea who had taken Gigi in after that. Given her physical condition, we didn't look any further for her owner(s).

Gigi had a sassy personality, but she was affectionate. She developed diabetes later in her life, and my husband and I gave her insulin injections that she didn't seem to mind. That little girl loved to be groomed. She also developed such thick cataracts that she was nearly blind. Whenever I brushed any of my other dogs, she would flop down beside me over and over and paw at me until she got brushed, too.

Gigi bit my husband twice, but not hard, once when he tried to take away a mouse she just caught, and once when he tried to take away a toothpick she found on the floor next to the kitchen trashcan.

We put our dogs' food in bins instead of keeping it in opened bags. One day while I was away for a few hours, Gigi chewed a hole in the bottom of a new bag of dog food and ate until she made herself very sick.

I am responsible for Gigi's death, and I have never forgiven myself and probably never will. As I was leaving for work one morning, she somehow squeezed through or around a fence gate because she wanted to go with me. I backed over her with my car. It happened so fast, and I don't know how she moved so quickly. I had just told her goodbye while she was standing on the other side of the gate as I got in my car. She was on the passenger side of my car, so I couldn't see her. I was hysterical, and I can still remember it like it just happened--the curse of having a really good memory.