My dog, Tom, was a Frisbee dog. He was blonde; ginger colored circles of fur at the backs of his knees. He’d leap into the air to catch the Frisbee. He’d catch any throw, and was especially thrilled to catch it over water and at the beach. Because I used the 200 gram disc and not the soft floppy rubber circles made specifically for dogs, a couple of his teeth were chipped in the heat of the game. The 200 gram disc soared, straight and true, for long distances. It was in these distances that Tommy gauged its descent and was able to make the catch – almost every time.

He’d bring the disc back to any willing thrower – even my mother after her stroke. Though in her handicapped state, she threw leftie and only a few wobbly feet, Tommy would patiently bring it back to her for another chance.

I remember one day towards the end of his life, I threw the Frisbee for him. He watched it soar, wagged his tail, then sat down on my feet, leaning into me. From then on, we swam together instead.

He lived 15 years, an eternity in Frisbee dog years.