"I want to tell you a story-a story of a time in my life that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to talk about much in the future. For some reason, time is of the essence, and I have a task to complete. I write this now, while I can, as my fingers flow across the keys of my laptop computer. They seem to know the words I want to say before I even think them.
    This story, in many ways, is your typical tale of a "boy and his dog." The dog in this story is my retired police K-9, Ronin.   Ronin lies beside me as I type, and perhaps it's his thoughts that guide the tips of my fingers now.   Ronin is eleven years old almost to the day on this cold New Years Eve of 2006. His eyes are a little cloudy and his step far from sure, yet Ronin still burns with life as cancer seems to tear and gnaw at his body from the inside.   He was not supposed to live past Christmas, yet he is still here with me today. Maybe he is sticking around for a little while just to make sure that I start writing his tale.
   Ronin's and my journey began when he was just twelve weeks old, and we lived and worked together for more than a decade. I spent more time with Ronin than I did with most people, including my family. We worked throughout California and other areas of the United States while we were both young and full of piss and vinegar. ... Ronin and I were manhunters. We were not the first, and we are far from the last. However, we were trained by the best, and Ronin's record was stellar.
   Amazingly, both of our careers seemed to end almost simultaneously. ..."