After Twyla died in late 2012, we were down to one dog, Harper. I'm pretty sure she was good with that scenario, but I went and ruined it for her by telling Maryanne Dell that I could foster a dog for her. I suggested a dog a little bigger than a Cavalier, maybe one about Harper's age. She brought me this little tiny black dog who was estimated by the Riverside shelter to be 12 or 13 years old. She had a shaved coat and a big bare spot on her back, presumably from flea allergies. Maryanne carried her up our stairs and set her down on the floor. Gemma marched into the kitchen and promptly peed beneath Larry Bird's cage. "I'm here, and I'm in charge," she seemed to say. By the time Jerry got home from a business trip a couple of days later, she was ensconced. I was pretty sure she was there to stay. And so she was. She tried bossing Harper around, but I explained that wasn't cool and she said okay. We didn't expect her to stay for long; she had mammary masses and her heart appeared to be enlarged. Her teeth were terrible, and they were all removed except for a couple of lower fangs, which gave her kind of a badass look. At first, having her around was a lot like having Twyla back. Bossy, bold, funny, smart. Her coat grew back. It was lush and flowing. She had a plume of a tail, and her semi-prick ears bounced when she walked. We were enchanted. Soon she was established as her own individual self. Her greatest delight in life was chasing birds. Crows, seagulls, pigeons--all were the enemy to be vanquished as she charged them with the scream of a banshee. Her vocalizations were unique and sent a clear message. It breaks my heart that I never could get any of them on tape because they were hilarious and always on the mark. About this time, I started Harper in nose work. We went off to class every Friday night, leaving Gemma at home with Jerry. Yeah, no. Gemma wanted to go too. And she was good. She picked it up right away. Although by the time she was ready for competition she was a little too old to handle all-day trials, in class she performed at high levels and often did better than Harper. Despite peeing under Larry's cage, she was perfectly housetrained after that. It was clear she had been used to living in a home. She adored babies--always dragged me over to see them and was sweet toward them. For the first couple of weeks she was with us, I didn't let her on the bed. She was a foster dog, after all, and I didn't want to get her used to something that might not continue after she was adopted. She bided her time, sleeping politely on a dog bed. Oh, who was I kidding? She was staying with us, and I eventually broke the rule that a dog who wanted to sleep on the bed had to be able to get up there on her own. I put Gemma up there, and she immediately burrowed beneath the covers. I pulled her out. She went back under. Perhaps it is no surprise who won. She was the first and likely only dog of ours to sleep under the covers. RIP, little tiny dog. We are so grateful you came and gave us four and a half years of your life.