Lately, I was deeply touched with two movies about faithful dogs：A Dog's Purpose and A Dog's Way Home. A dog's life cycled and cycled only to meet his first owner while the other covered 400 miles of toil and hunger all the way back to her home. I had a faithful dog too when I was a little girl, but it was a different story.

When my dad first took him home in a cardboard box, he was so quiet that I even doubted whether there was really a dog in it. When I peeped through two small holes on the side, I just saw a patch of grey fur. My dad assured me that it was just a small dog before I dared to open the box. There he was! What a lovely grey dog! He was slim and looked smart. I was on my knees as I cheerfully observed him. However, he tried to avoid eye contact with me, apparently a little scared with everything strange around. I wanted to pet his head but he only turned his head away.

When he became familiar with me, I called him Billy and he was really delighted, zagging his tail. Every time I left for school, he saw me off. When I came back, he ways waited on my way home and greeted me with his licks and brushed his head against legs. When Billy was in the kitchen with my father, lying on a small heap of firewood side the furnace （灶）,he could always know which piece of firewood my dad would pick   and raised his paw in time. It always surprised me how intelligent and considerate Billy   I imagined him turning into a small boy carrying my schoolbag for me and talking   my dad. With Billy brightening every day of my childhood, I was more than happy.

But one day, Billy was seriously ill.

A few years later, I went to a dog's shelter to try my luck.

My Dad’s Best Flower

I remember my first home was a small apartment on the second floor with a lovely and spacious balcony. When my mom was busy in the kitchen, she let me stay on the balcony watching the kids playing in the street. On that balcony I played sometimes with my elder sister, Maria. She was seven years old and when my mom was absent, she was like a mother to me. The balcony was a great hobby place for my father. After his work he used to grow carnations (康乃馨) in flower boxes. His carnations were red, pink and white, and everyone appreciated them for their beauty.

He took care of them with so much love and devotion. He dealt carefully with his flowers like a mother taking care of her baby. Many times I sat on the floor of the balcony for hours observing him and his lovely flowers with patience. He was always doing something on that balcony. He was watering them every day, cleaning the balcony floor, changing the potting soil and when the stems were thick, strong and high enough, he started his improvement operation attentively like a doctor.

My dad took a tiny knife and with his left hand he held the stem of the carnation and measured the height. Then he made a small mark on the stem with his finger. Afterwards he made a sharp cut with the knife, just enough to fit in again of barley (插穗的芽). Then he bandaged the stem with a small bandage. His job was then to water the plants and to take care of them. “No one should touch them,” he said to Mom. Every day, when he came home from work he went straight to the balcony.

Mom used to tell us, “Do not touch Daddy’s flowers.” For us it was a fascinating experience to watch how the small stems were growing and making flowers. When the carnations had grown big enough, my dad enjoyed watching them every day. We the kids did too.

One day, my elder sister, who loved Dad very much, had a great idea.

When my dad arrived, he went as usual, straight to the balcony and saw his flowers lying on the floor like dead animals.