I should probably tell you right from the beginning that this is not a happy story, even though Murray, over the course of a dozen years brought much happiness with her. Try as I might, it remains easier for me to remember the day she died than the thousands of dog days she lived. It is all too fresh, even now, so many months later.

Murray was a trade-in of sorts, adopted from a nearby animal league just before Thanksgiving in 1984. Linda, my girlfriend back then, had told me she was surprised I didn't have a dog; I needed no further urging, and as is my nature, soon adopted a beautiful husky I named Sumner. It was a languid, southern-sounding name for a dog who turned out to be anything but languid and quiet. The day I came home from work and found he'd eaten a box of Christmas ornaments was the day I realized he had to go back. He needed a better home than I could provide in my little three-room apartment.

A dog I'd seen at the pound during my first visit was still there, unadopted after two weeks, apparently because of a ferocious-looking underbite. She'd been left by owners who had become allergic to her, and so it was that Teddy - as she was called - came home with me. She was homely in a cute kind of way, with black fur, brown spots on her front legs, huge ears that I joked could pick up radio broadcasts from the Soviet Union, and dark, almond-colored eyes. It was Linda who suggested the name change. ``She looks like a Jewish tailor to me,'' Linda said. ``Murray's a good Jewish tailor's name.'' So she became Murray.

Over the next decade or so, Murray accompanied me on many trips home to North Carolina, out to the Cape to visit Linda's mom, on jaunts around town. She ran behind me while I biked and even went with me once while I was working on a story. I left her in the car and she promptly ate the driver's side head rest, my headrest. Murray did not like being left for long.

We moved four times over the years, finally settling in a two-bedroom condo in a funky, old neighborhood across town. Within three weeks, she was gone, deciding apparently that she did not want to be tied up in the yard, however briefly, and chewing through her leash to freedom. I sat food out on the front steps, scoured the area calling and clapping. I put up wanted posters that included pictures of Murray dressed in one of Linda's aunt's old sweaters. I called local shelters without luck. One neighbor blamed the ``foreigners'' for Murray's disappearance and warned me that they ate dogs.

Happily, she turned up in the middle of the night at my old apartment. A friend woke me from a restless sleep to tell me he was bringing her over. At 2 a.m., smelling of garbage, Murray returned. She was eight years old at the time and in her prime. She stayed with me through a series of relationships during the next few years, a constant in a life of change. Lovers came and went. Murray stayed, demanding only her dog bones and an occasional romp on the beach

As happens with all dogs and people, time began to wear her down. Her eyesight dimmed and her hearing virtually disappeared. I had to wave my arms wildly and clap to get her attention and coax her in or out. She could run for only a few minutes before settling onto the grass to rest. Her back legs grew thin and weak, and by winter, I was carrying her up and down the stairs so she wouldn't fall. I kept hoping I would wake up one morning to find she had gone quietly in the night.

In July, she became sick, and Craig and I made an appointment with the vet. I invited Linda over, and Marvin, and we let Murray sit in the yard on what turned out to be a golden summer afternoon. (Craig even brought her home a steak, which we never got around to preparing.) She could barely walk, but she seemed to be in no pain, and we all sat around on the steps talking about her, waiting until it was time to leave. ``We may very well be back,'' I told them. ``Maybe the vet can do something.'' Linda was crying as I hoisted Murray onto the sheet I'd spread on the back seat. So was Marvin. As the sun settled in the western sky, we drove away.

At the vet's, Murray became sick again, and the vet told us what we'd expected: ``This might be an appropriate time to make that decision. She's 16, and while we might be able to keep her going for a few weeks, what would be her quality of life.'' She left the little examination room, and Craig and I talked about whether it was, finally, time to say good-bye.

She would feel no pain, the vet said. Just an overdose of something that will put her to sleep and stop her heart. I put my arms around Murray's neck and Craig grabbed her around her waist, holding her as the vet began to administer the shot. I tried not to cry so Murray would stay calm, and I told her over and over how much I loved her and what a good dog she'd been. ``Good dog, Murray.'' ``Good dog, Murray.'' I repeated it over and over as her eyes dimmed and I could see her fade away. The last thing she saw was me, and as hard as it was, I am proud of that.

We eased her to the floor and asked that she be cremated. I wanted her to be in the yard she loved, nearby. And then we turned and walked out, taking with us her leash and her empty collar. The next day, some of the neighbors stopped by to ask about Murray. They knew she'd been sick. I told them she was gone.

Linda sent a bouquet of flowers, as did Mark. Others sent sympathy cards. For weeks thereafter, I sat in the swing outside, expecting her to come jingling slowly around the corner _ even after Linda spotted an ad for Bubba, a black Lab who was the pet of the week at a nearby shelter. (Yes, we adopted him.). Eventually, Murray's ashes arrived in a small metal container, like the ones in which Christmas cookies are kept. We sat it on the floor, near where her bed used to be. And there she remained until the frozen ground thawed in the warm sunlight of Spring. Then, on a soft warm evening in May -- the month in which she was born -- Craig and I put Murray back in the yard where she spent her waning days rolling in the grass and playing and sleeping.

Murray at her 11th birthday party in 1992.