I was raised by a dog.

Sure, I had a mom, a dad and a big sister, but my main guardian was a male border collie named Chief. And he was the chief of my world. He was my best friend growing up.

At first, we were kind of thrown together. He was the guest that came to visit and ended up staying. Chief had been living with my nana's friends in the city, but traffic and a border collie just don't mix.

Chief was supposed to be my sister's dog, but my sister, a big-time dog lover, went away to college, and I stayed home with Chief.

He followed me around from sunrise to sunset from the time I was a baby until I was about 9 years old. We walked from one end of town to the other, through the woods, jumping over rocks and streams in the neighborhood. My parents didn't have to worry about me with Chief in tow.

We were inseparable, but the times we were apart, he always knew where I was.

"Chief, go get Mike," my mom would tell my dog.

I'd be out playing somewhere, but he would bark at me until I made a move in the direction of home. If I refused, he would grab me by the pants and drag me until I did what my mom told me to do.

Eventually, we'd both get home. I'd get dinner, and Chief would get a Milk Bone.
My mom also used him as a babysitter and almost got in trouble with the local police.

One day, she left me in the playpen with Chief so she could do her chores. On this day, one of the neighbors tried to pick up me up out of the crib, but there was no way Chief was going to allow anyone to touch me, even if he knew them.
To make a long story short: He barked, bared his teeth, the neighbor called the police, the police showed up, Chief not caring that he was wearing blue, barked and growled at him too. My mother thought she was headed to lock-up, but instead, the police officer praised Chief. "He was doing what he was supposed to be doing," he said.

When I learned to hit a baseball, he would run after it and try to catch it in the air. In the fall, when we played football, I'd run with the ball and he would chase me.

When I was 5, we both moved to a new house together with a lot of room to play. We'd have breakfast and then go on a daily adventure.

At this point, I thought it was always going to be that way. It was, until one summer day.

My sister was being picked up for work when a car came into the yard. Chief thought it was going to hit us, so he jumped in front of it and was run over.
Everyone cried for days, but in the end, Chief was just doing his job. Back then, it was hard for a 9-year-old who had just lost his best friend to think that way.

If it happened today, it would be just as hard as a 51-year-old. Best friends, like Chief, are sure hard to come by.