One of my leachers once asked my class what our favorite memory was. My leacher asked for the moment in which “you fell the best; you fell that you had the world in the palms of your hand.” Some described amazing awards; other described winning a tournament. My answer, however, invited giggles and hesitant smiles. Why? Because I felt the best when I first learned how to ride my bike at thirteen. I didn’t mind my classmates’ stares and mockery, because I knew there was more to the story.

My elder sister and I shared a typical sisterly relationship: we couldn’t stand each other. I was an annoyance to her. Any sort of conversation we had usually ended up fighting. Gradually, I started to learn to be totally indifferent; perhaps the silent treatment would get more approval. I was wrong. We soon fell into a sad pattern. I avoided her, and she ignored me.   Deep inside, it hurt. So that was how it was between us. She was only a sister in name. I truly believed that we would forever be apart, two housemates without conversation, two strangers without warmth.

I still remember the day I learned to ride a bike. I had received the bike that Christmas, which was great, until I realized that I had no idea how to ride it. My mom had long abandoned any attempt to teach me. I had proven to be a frustrating student. I took it upon myself to learn, a little bit each day. It was no different. I was coming to the end of my daily one-hour torture(折磨). I was so frustrated that I threw my bike aside and began to cry.

I guess that was what caused my sister to come outside.

“I made it,” I exclaimed with delight.

I worked in the local pet registration office in our neighborhood. It had been a few months since our beloved Bama had passed away. He’d lived a good, long life. My husband, Alan, and I didn’t have children. Our boxer (拳狮犬)was our baby. After Bama’s death, we couldn’t bring ourselves to go through his toys to decide what to keep, so we put them all in our closet. I told myself I’d do it when I was ready. Apparently, I still wasn’t.

Now I sat on my front porch and sobbed. Friends and family had suggested we get another dog, but Alan and I dismissed the idea. We couldn’t go through that kind of heartbreak again. Besides, I didn’t want just any dog. I wanted Bama.

I gazed out over the yard. Across the street was a dog. A boxer. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Was he real or just a myth of my wishful imagination? I blinked. The boxer was still there. We locked eyes. He ran at a moderately swift pace across the street, straight toward me. Tentatively, I offered my hand. He licked me. I let out a surprised laugh.

This dog was younger than Bama, smaller. Bama had been white, but this dog’s fur got stripes. He wore a collar but had no ID. I knew he must belong to someone in the neighborhood, but I’d never seen another boxer around. I would have remembered if I had.

“Where did you come from?” I asked the dog, scratching him behind the ears. He didn’t seem lost. Just as if he were dropping by for a visit. “Alan!” I called. “You have to come see this!”

Alan joined me, and we sat together in wonder for a moment. Then the boxer got up and ran off. In the following days, he’d sometimes appear in the backyard when Alan and I were outside. Other times, he’d wait for us on the front porch. “I wish he, d announce himself, ” Alan joked. “Knock on the door or something.” The next day, there was a strange scratching at the door. I opened it and saw the mystery boxer, doggie smile wide.

The dog seemed to know exactly what my husband and I needed.

Recovering from pain of the great loss, I wanted to know who his owner was.

I was eight years old and lived in Toowoomba, Australia in 1950. My mother was in great pain from polio (小儿麻痹症). She wished to visit specialists in London.

The day before we boarded the ship, my father said goodbye to his five-year-old Australian cattle dog, Spider, who was loved by us all. My father’s friend Sandy was to be his guardian while we were overseas.

Six weeks later, Sandy told my father that Spider had run away. I would always remember my father’s sad face when he read the news. Sandy had advertised in the newspaper again and again, but Spider was never found. It seemed Spider just kept running and searching for us. My mother thought Spider would be killed. But our family thought that Dad held a secret hope that Spider was still alive.

We sailed back to Australia two years later and re-established our home in Toowoomba. My father immediately began his own search for Spider. However, many false calls and information meant that a huge atmosphere of disappointment hung over our home.

One cold Saturday morning eight months after our return, my father had a call from Gin Gin, 375 kilometers from Toowoomba. An elderly lady told my father she was just catching sight of a dog looking like Spider in her old farm.

That was enough for my father to stop my homework. My mother said to him, “Ian, this has to stop. You will be driving miles in the bush!”But we set off in the end.

Five and a half hours later, we arrived. The elderly lady invited us into an old bush kitchen for tea. My father was anxious to see the yellow dog. So we followed her to the old farm.

Sadly, she then told my father that the dog hadn’t been around. My father had a strange look in his eyes.

My father put two fingers in his mouth and did his special whistle for Spider.

In the evening, we arrived home with Spider.