Named somewhere in-between a hockey player numbered 33 and the lead character in a movie where a DeLorean went 88, Martin was an awesome dog.  Energetic and friendly, entertaining and obnoxious, unconditionally loyal.  Born sometime in October 1995 and brought home by the parents soon afterwards, the young Marty and I bonded almost instantly.  One of his earliest stunts was to run a lap through the house with the TV remote in his mouth.  Definitely my kind of guy.

One day, I rolled a hockey ball towards him and he dutifully nose-bumped it back to me.  I did this a couple more times until it eventually turned into a full-blown game of fetch.  Soon afterwards, I was playing ball hockey with him.  In my head, I can still hear his nails clicking against concrete as he tracked the ball from forehand to backhand to forehand.  He fetched the ball after a wrist shot and dropped it at my feet.  He anticipated bounces from the walls and made every effort to ensure that the ball did not get behind him.

He always seemed to know when I was losing control of the ball — that’s when he’d come in for a poke check, take the ball from me, drop it at my feet, and give me this happy grin as he dropped back into position.  He ALWAYS charged on a toe-drag move.  In fact, the only move I had that consistently got past him is the only move I have left in roller hockey…forehand deke, cross over to backhand.

Marty was a constant companion through both good and bad times.  He was good for one more hug through times of sorrow and grief.  Most significantly, he was the main catalyst in an enchanting spell that made all my sadness and worries momentarily disappear — when the entire universe contained only he, myself, a hockey stick, and a roller hockey ball.

I miss you, Martin.  Hey listen, I don’t care what anybody else says — when you get up there, find the other guy with a whole bunch of animals around him.  The first guy’s name is Steve and he’s cool.  You’re looking for Francis, though.  Drop the ball by his feet.  I’m sure he’ll know what to do.  I bet his backhand isn’t better than mine.