My father was standing at the window looking out toward the thick woods that bordered our property. His aging eyes -- my father was 50 when I was born -- scanned the acres of pastureland looking for my return. I had gone to the woods alone, carrying a small axe to cut down our annual Christmas tree. The frost on the window panes began to obscure the view like little paw prints overlapping each other on the glass. The leaden sky began to darken with the heavy curtain of snow.

Butchy, my first dog and my first best friend, paced anxiously around my father's feet, instinctively fearing the worsening weather conditions. The 35-pound black and tan terrier-mix, now 10 years old, was an avid hunter. She had been raised from a puppy with me as a baby, oftentimes sharing my cradle.

My father had taught me that there is a little bit of Heaven born in each and every dog. It is this "bit" that gives every dog his or her unconditional love -- that special love that is shared with each special owner. Unconditional love is something of which no human being is capable. People always have strings attached. Always. But from a dog, unconditional love is a fact of life -- pure and simple.

My father was becoming worried. He realized that because of the heavy snowfall and eminent darkness, visibility would soon be gone.

Butchy then began to howl.

My trek to the woods had been long and arduous. My boots sank six inches into the crusted snow with every step, tiring my legs and slowing my progress to the center of the clearing. But as I walked I thought to myself -- at least I will have an easy path to follow back to the cabin. Unknown to me, the heavy falling snow drifting in the wintry wind was obliterating my tracks.

The tall dark green pines densely laden with snow on their boughs began to surround me shutting off much of the light reflecting from the cornfield.

After scoping out the perfect tree because only "perfect" would do for Christmas, I set my axe in motion. Although I was young, I had very strong arms and my father kept a well-honed axe. In two shakes I had our Christmas tree felled. I bundled it with the rope I had brought and secured all of my knots so that it could be easily dragged from the woods.

I got up from my crouched position and looked around. Now that it was darker, considerably darker, my pathway was gone. Branches -- so caked with snow -- were now touching the ground, obscuring the pasture and confining me within the clearing. I also realized as my teeth began to chatter that the cold was becoming more intense.

With Butchy's second howl, my father grabbed his coat and scarf off the coat hooks on the entryway wall and pulled on his snow boots.

"Butchy," coached my father at the door, "Go find James." My father liked calling me James -- it was his name too. I was his only child.

Butchy was my only dog.

My father's neck was wrapped warmly in the hand-knitted scarf made for him by my mother. The fringed ends blew over his shoulders in the swirling snowy wind. His brown corduroy jacket -- the color of the cornstalks -- was buttoned snugly down the front and he wore thick woolen socks inside his boots to protect his feet.

Butchy loved the winter. Her thick coat kept her warm and agile and she loved running in the snow.

I realized my father knew where I was and as he had always told me, "Stay in one place; do not wander. The more you wander, the more lost you become!" I also knew I should not be afraid.

Sitting on the big tree stump near the center of the clearing and waiting, I said to myself, "Patience." I knew my father was probably on his way, and I had no idea which way was out.

As he was walking into the woods, my father came to an abrupt halt. His gold-rimmed Ben Franklin-like glasses had become so fogged with his breath that he could not see. Butchy, sensing my father, also stopped and turned to look at him.

Knowing how anxious she was, my father yelled to her, "Go on, girl; go find James, and wait for me there." Immediately her back legs kicked up the snow and she raced between some downed branches and then into the woods heading for the clearing.

The cold began eating through my gloves and, unlike my father's, my thick white cotton socks offered no protection. I looked up at the darkening ceiling above me. Flakes of snow, adhering first to my eyelashes and then melting, stung my eyes with their cold sensations. Blue shadows began to dance and flitter all around me. But still I waited.

Looking over my left shoulder, I spied a big black dot pushing up the snow and coming toward me. Butchy was pedaling through the snow as fast as she could go. When she reached the stump she made one big leap onto my lap and started warming my face with her hot dog tongue.

My father, arriving a few minutes later, and not being the type of person to make a bad situation worse simply asked, "Have you got the tree?"

I pointed to the neatly balled and bundled fir tree by my side and said, "What took you so long? I've just been sitting here waiting for you both."

I let my father drag the tree from the woods that night and I carried Butchy in my arms.

Over the years that warm, raspy tongue would be a source of inspiration, courage, and just plain friendship. We had grown up together; we had taught each other to walk or rather she had held me up while I was learning. She was there beside me when I soloed on my first two-wheeler. She lived to be at my side.

Six years later on a cold, bleak rainy morning, my best friend, my companion Butchy would teach me the hardest thing about love -- that it sometimes means saying "goodbye."

I arose early on that fateful morning and sauntered down to the kitchen. My father, who always arose much earlier to feed the animals, was looking out the window as he drank his third cup of coffee. Butchy's food dish, which was still full, sat on the counter. My mother entered the kitchen, unable to hide the tears that leaked from beneath the hankie she held to her face. I knew something was terribly wrong without anyone speaking a word.

My father said to me, "If you want, go out and say goodbye to Butchy before I bury her in the garden. She's in her dog house."

Butchy, my faithful friend for sixteen years had died during the night. The tears plummeted down my face, tearing small bits from my heart as they fell into my coffee cup.

But I could not go. I had to say goodbye, but in my own special way. I could not go out and look at her lifeless shell that had licked me and comforted me so many times throughout the years.

I stared out the fog covered window and, looking toward Heaven, I whispered to my best friend . . . "Goodbye, Butchy."