My dog, Shaka, died last week. He was 12 years old, so that’s about 84 years in people-age. However that math equation works. Is it because his heartbeat was faster? I never understood that concept.

I became the proud owner of that king of Doberman goofiness in 1998 when I was a single girl, living the dotcom la vida loca. His father, Sebastian, was a horse of a dog and weighed about 140 pounds. I’d never seen a Dobie that big and wondered if Shaka would grow into such a beautiful creature.

My childhood is filled with this misunderstood breed. There was Bree, a flighty, deerish red Dobie whose favorite meal was spaghetti. I would place my bowl of Cheerios beside her dog bowl and share meals together. Then there was Shadow, who was part of our family from the 4th grade until my sophomore year of college. His floppy ears gave his face a cartoonish style, and kept me and my high school friends from sneaking out of my bedroom window. (They’d watched one too many episodes of “Magnum P.I.”)

Those childhood bonds made me long for my own Doberman. After bringing the pup home, I started brainstorming his name. I settled on Shaka, although his name was often confused for an 80s pop singer, it actually meant ‘hang loose’ Hawaiian style, with a nod to Shaka Zulu.

I bought a vintage orange couch which Shaka quickly adopted. He sat alongside me on that couch, person-like. He slept in my bed. He ate popcorn. He swam at the lake and could outrun a train. I wish I had timed him, because I swear he was a rocket. Little dogs with the Napoleon complex would constantly yip at us on walks, trying to start a fight. But Shaka never gave them a growl–he knew they would be mere appetizers.

My constant companion grew to 130 pounds. I flipped his ears inside out for the Princess Leah look and he let me. I dressed him in a silver cape on Halloween and called him DOBER-MAN. We ran down the sidewalk singing, “Run, run, run ad fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m Doberman!”

Then I met the man who became my husband. Shaka was not happy with the introduction and placed his vote by chewing up Chris’s underwear. He wasn’t sure about sharing me, but he grew to love his new daddy. Eventually. (Chris is a cat lover, so that meant the inevitable introduction of the felines.)

We took Shaka and three other dogs to the beach where upon opening the doors the wild pack disappeared into the black night. That made our first two hours eventful. They finally (amazingly) returned and our trip continued. Shaka bit at the waves and drank an oceanful of salt water. Lesson learned.

We fed Shaka and the brood pork ribs. Let’s just say a carpet cleaner was rented and smells burned into our skulls. Another lesson to check off of the proverbial list. My mom’s class built him a doghouse christened The Shaka Shack. It was a blue monstrosity, fit for a miniature human.

We moved a million times, had two babies and with each move Shaka adapted. He wasn’t crazy for the Illinois snow, but enjoyed the cool summers. But when arrived in Florida, he got the memo. It was time to retire. His hips were failing, and walking became a challenge. This once strong, running machine could now barely walk. He spent his days inside, lounging. He loved the boys, and never once showed a pointed incisor when they yanked his ears. They climbed on his back, and he loved it. Because that was his job: to love us.

Upon our last move back to Texas Shaka’s bones were tired. He could no longer enjoy his backyard or nightly walks. The thrill was gone. Letting him go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve made. I realize many people don’t understand the connection between man and dog. They don’t comprehend the unconditional love that we ‘dog people’ profess. I finally realized that keeping him here in body, while his spirit was gone was no way for such a magnificent being to live. As he lay in my lap I saw his deep brown eyes and funny eyebrows looking at me. He was ready.

Goodbye, sweet friend. You gave me 12 memory-filled years. The boys wonder where you are, and now say that you’re a dog angel. Well, you always were, weren’t you? I know that you’re up there in that great dog park in the sky, racing Bree and Shadow, as the ever-loyal DOBER-MAN.

xoxo.