Colby didn’t think he was a dog. We swore that such an attitude was the source of his longevity; a Labrador retriever that lived past his sixteenth birthday who believed our little pack was populated entirely by animals of the same species. He slept on a bed and thought dog bowls were for dogs. Unlike every other Lab in history, he never rushed to his bowl when we poured in his kibble; Colby simply loved human food. We sat eating with a hand raised high out of habit, otherwise Colby would leap up and devour our food. When visitors arrived at the door, Colby greeted them with a shoe in his mouth and carried it around for a minute or two; he kept a collection under the dining room table. One summer we lost a running shoe and the following spring found it in the woods by the lake: a greeting that had gone too long. Colby reminded us that family extends beyond ourselves. He loved completely, without hesitation. Even when he could no longer thump his tail or carry shoes in greeting, his eyebrows wiggled around his head to show his joy at being with us. He is sorely missed.